


Let My Love Guide You Home

by elle_m



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blind Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, John Loves Sherlock, Kissing, Love, M/M, Medical Conditions, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sad Sherlock, Sexual Content, Sherlock Loves John, Slow Burn, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_m/pseuds/elle_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock wakes up blind, he realises that he might never be able to see the love of his life again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Finally, the sun pierced the thick layer of clouds and illuminated the entire city, casting a warm glow across the streets. Despite the earliness of the hour, there were plenty of people hurrying through the streets of London, carrying their takeaway coffees while being careful not to smile at passing strangers, determined to make it to work on time. A little bird flying above the rushing pedestrians, let out a chirp which was drowned out by a man shouting obscenities at a cab driver. Spreading its tiny wings, the bird lit on a window sill, and began to sing joyful whistle-like notes, giving the promise of a sunny day ahead.

The dusty windows of 221B Baker Street bathed in the emerging sun and let small rays of light stream through them. It was silent and peaceful. There were only two men in the room, sleeping soundly, completely unaware of the traffic outside. There was a hint of last night's magic remaining in the quiet room, lingering as a faint odour of musk and sweat and hiding in the relaxed and limp bodies of the two men.

A patch of sunlight fell on John's face and made him open his eyes slightly. Rubbing the sleep out of them he let out a yawn and blinked a few times, trying to adapt to the brightness of the morning sun. His body felt heavy and sore as he pushed himself up on his forearms but he didn't mind; his aching back and the throbbing pain in his inner thighs only reminded him of the amazing sex he had had last night. Well, to be more precise, it reminded him of the man he had the good fortune of sharing his life—and his bed—with. The mere thought of him made John's heart swell in his chest and his lips curve into a smile. John Watson was madly in love. And he was enjoying every single second of it.

John let his gaze wander leisurely around the room as if to ensure that nothing had changed since he had fallen asleep last night listening to the sound of the other man's beating heart with their legs tangled together and their heavy breaths falling into a synchronous rhythm. And everything was unchanged, from the low, monotonous ticking of the wall clock to the hastily removed trousers lying on the floor.

He watched the sunlight dancing across the green walls, filling the room with a soft emerald glow. A tall mahogany bookshelf was standing against the wall next to the door. The shelf was full of books, half of which John had never even heard of, leaning against one another, a fine layer of dust covering them. There were some papers lying here and there on the floor, keeping company for small lumps of dust and various objects from a sock to a muddy tennis ball.

John shook his head lightly, immersed in his thoughts; he had already given up on getting the other man to keep the house clean. There were times when the floor of their flat was impossible to see due to the amount of old newspapers, the countless piles of books, and an occasional crumpled paper covering it. John had almost grown immune to the endless jars and cans filled with thumbs, eyeballs or something at least equally horrendous.

He turned on to his right side to catch sight of the sleeping man beside him, the white sheet draped across his lower body, leaving his bare chest exposed. John could not help but smile fondly as he watched the man's chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing, his dark eyelashes fluttering a little with his every exhalation. The man looked so vulnerable lying there beside him that John felt a sudden urge to bring him into a tight embrace, to protect him, to make sure that nothing ever hurt him. He settled for watching him from afar, unwilling to wake him yet.

John's gaze stayed on the man's dark, unruly hair, adoring the way it curled around his beautiful face, and then he let his eyes shift to study the man's pale skin covered with dozens of scars. John had memorised every single one of the marks while exploring his body, and he desperately wanted to know the stories behind them. John wanted to know him thoroughly. He wanted to know all the little things that made the man who he was, and he wanted to store the information safely in his mind and heart.

John's eyes wandered all over the man's body, absorbing his whole being with his eyes until he felt like every cell in his body was filled with love and yearning for the man. Moments like this were rare. Having the chance to see the lines on the man's forehead softened and his lips slightly apart was a moment John wanted to savour. He woke up almost every day in a cold bed, the indent in the man's pillow as the only proof that John hadn't slept the night alone. Sometimes he wished the man wasn't so restless, always doing anything at all to avoid being bored, but most of the time John didn't really mind; as long as the other was staying by his side, making him feel full of life, and giving him a reason to wake up every morning, he was fine with the lonely mornings.

John was startled out of his thoughts as he saw the body next to him tense and the man blink his eyes open.

John had once said to him that his eyes were the colour of magic. He knew that it was silly and overly romantic but it had slipped from his lips before he had had time to think about it. The man had rolled his eyes and huffed at him that he was being irrational and absurd and that magic was certainly not a colour. John had shut him up with a kiss.

“Good morning, love,” John murmured, his voice rough and unused.

The man blinked several times and frowned. He turned toward John, but instead of looking at him, he stared at the opposite wall, an unreadable expression on his face.

John's smile faded away as he turned to follow his gaze. “What are you looking at, Sherlock? Is everything okay?”

The man, Sherlock, squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with the inside of his wrists, the frown on his forehead deepening. The colour drained from Sherlock's face as he opened his eyes again. John felt a little uneasy and he cleared his throat, trying to understand Sherlock's empty expression.

“I can't see, John,” Sherlock said his voice steady and almost too calm, “I can't see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is my first attempt at writing fan fiction ever. I'm open to constructive criticism but, please, don't be too harsh on me! I tend to be very critical of myself and my own work, so it took me quite a while before I found the courage to publish this story. And as you have most certainly noticed, English is not my native language. I'd be more than happy if you could point out any errors in my writing so I can correct them!  
> If you'd like to read more, please let me know. It's always nice to get positive feedback. :)


	2. Chapter 2

_Tick tock. Tick tock._ The sound of the antique German wall clock penetrated his mind. _Tick tock. Tick tock._ It echoed in his mind like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode any second, threatening to take his memories with it. _Tick tock. Tick tock._ Sherlock could already hear how his mind palace would crumble into dust, the explosion tearing down the walls of his most heavily guarded room, shattering the memories he had so carefully stored, leaving only darkness and suffocating dust behind.

And he felt like he was suffocating, as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs and replaced with lead, weighing him down. _Tick tock. Tick tock._ His chest felt tight. Unbearably tight. It felt as if it had been squeezed into a tight corset, forcing him to draw shallow breaths through his cracked lips.

_Tick tock. Tick tock._

Sherlock was only remotely aware of that his amygdala, the emotional center of the brain, was attempting to override his prefrontal cortex, making it difficult to think clearly, hard to focus, impossible to stay calm. He cursed the fact that the region of the brain in charge of critical thinking and problem solving was failing because he couldn't keep his emotions at bay. His mind was a mess of incoherent thoughts and useless feelings, accompanied by the loud ticking.

His brother was right: caring was clearly not an advantage.

The ticking of the wall clock was driving him crazy, it was pushing him to the brink of sanity. The sound became amplified in his head; it was echoing off the bone of his skull, drowning out all other auditory input. _Tick tock. Tick tock._ It was too loud. Sherlock wanted to scream but no sound would leave his constricted throat. The desire was left lingering in the back of his mind as the neurons in his brain failed to fire.

_Tick tock. Tick tock._

As the adrenaline was pouring through his system, kicking in the fight-or-flight response, he was hit with a sudden urge to escape, to run far away before the choking feeling in his throat would strangle the last breath out of him.

And he ran, stumbling through the thick fog blurring his mind, his racing heart pounding loudly in his ears. He could almost feel the blood rushing through his veins as he ran and ran, up endless stairs and along unending corridors, not knowing where he was heading.

Sherlock felt disoriented; it was like someone had penetrated the depths of his mind and reconstructed his mind palace, making it resemble the mind of a drug abuser.

The fog enfolded Sherlock into its inescapable embrace, invading his nose and ears, permeating every pore of his skin. _Tick tock._ Sherlock wanted to get away from the monotonous ticking, he wanted it to stop. The sound was deafening; it felt as if the clock had been inserted into his head, making his head throb with every tick.

He knew that there had to be something to calm his racing body and mind down. Something. Anything. He just had to find it. Sherlock forced himself to think, squeezing his eyes shut, making the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent. _Think. Think. **Think.**_

_Oh._

Sherlock came to a surprised halt as he heard a faint chirp; he directed all his concentration to the light sound that reached his mind. _Cheep, chirrup._ It was so soft that he almost missed it. As he listened more carefully, he realised that it was a melody; it was so subtle and quiet that it took all his concentration to hear it. Sherlock let the melody fill his mind and calm him down like a sweet lullaby. Sherlock knew it was a house sparrow, _Passer domesticus_ , found in most parts of the world and common in urban settings, often described as tame and cheerful. The ticking had abated.

The rustle of the duvet and squeaking of mattress springs brought him back to reality, replacing the blurry vision with total darkness. _John._ John was shifting nervously, he was panicking. Sherlock knew that he had to stay calm, ignore the panic raging inside of him. He had to stay calm for John. All he could see was darkness, trying to pull him down into oblivion, but he couldn't allow himself to lose it now, not in front of John.

Sherlock would have given anything in the world to be able to see John now, anything at all for one last glimpse. If he had known that last night was the last time he would see him, he would have paid more attention; he would have fought his bodily needs and stayed awake drinking him in with his eyes, absorbing every inch of his being. Sherlock was afraid that he hadn't stored enough details of John in his mind, he was afraid that the memories would fade away, piece by piece, until they were lost and gone for good. In a few years, maybe even months, he would have forgotten how John's lips twitched into a smile and how his eyes glowed with pleasure when their naked bodies were sprawled across the bed, quivering in satisfaction.

Sherlock couldn't afford to forget John Watson. If he forgot him, he might as well just die. Even a knife in his chest or a rope around his neck would be less painful than forgetting the only person he had ever truly loved. The only person that made him feel like life was worth living. He didn't need cocaine when he was with him; John Watson was better than any drug Sherlock Holmes had ever tried.

The trembling of his hands told Sherlock that the adrenaline rush was waning, but the tightness in his chest remained, making it hard to breathe. He was feeling weak, both emotionally and physically; his body was trying to betray him. Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat, and he bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from letting his emotions spill out.

“Sherlock, we need to get you to the hospital,” John's wavering voice came from in front of him, and Sherlock felt John's weight lift away from the bed, making him feel even more alone, lost in the endless darkness. The auditory input wasn't enough for him. Sherlock needed to see him, to touch him, to feel him with every fibre of his trembling body. As the familiar weight of John's body was gone, the distance between them suddenly felt longer. He felt as if they were a million miles apart; he couldn't feel John's breath tickling his skin anymore, nor could he smell the faint odour of his body lingering in his nostrils. He craved John's touch, he wanted John's lips pressed against his forehead, soothing him, he needed John to tell him he loved him, that he wouldn't leave him.

“Do you have any other symptoms? Any pain?” John asked, shifting into doctor mode.

He heard the worry in John's voice despite his attempt to hide it. Sherlock winced unintentionally. He was in pain, it hurt more than John could imagine. It wasn't just his sight that had been taken away from him. He had lost the ability to look into John's dark blue eyes, to watch his sandy blond hair getting ruffled by him running his fingers through it, to gaze at John's perfect ass. To see him smiling and laughing. Sherlock's heart ached. It burned in his chest, making him feel nauseous.

John cleared his throat. “Love, please, just tell me. Are you in pain?”

Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath, his eyelids stinging with the suppressed emotions. And then he felt it: a throbbing pain inside his head. It was like a hammer hitting his brain again and again. He had been so lost in his thoughts and his body had been so flooded with adrenaline that he hadn't felt it before, but now the pain hit him like a wave. Sherlock's trembling hands found their way to his head and he grimaced. He didn't have to say anything; John had noticed his pained expression.

“Oh God, Sherlock... love, we are getting you to the hospital immediately. I'm calling Mycroft.”

Sherlock didn't have the strength to protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it took me so long to update. This chapter wasn't easy to write, but I'm happy to finally be able to publish it.  
> I hope you enjoy!  
> P.S. Comments and kudos mean the world to me, thank you for leaving them!

Seeing him like this was completely new to John. John had seen him immersed in his thoughts countless of times, but this was something different: the emptiness in Sherlock's eyes made him look like the life had been sucked out of him, leaving his empty shell slumped beside him in the black sedan taking them to the hospital. His beautiful face was so numb and expressionless, the whole being of him was so hollow, so distant. There was no frown between Sherlock's brows, no twinkle in his eye the way there used to be whenever he was reaching a solution—no indication of him being delving deep into his mind palace.

John wanted to wrap his arms around Sherlock, to make him feel safe and protected, to cradle him in his embrace. He wanted to tell him that everything was going to be all right, that they were going to be all right. But John couldn't do that, the words would not come; he could barely look at Sherlock, let alone touch him. It felt like an invisible wall was between them, a wall of paralysing fear, separating them into different planes of existence.

John felt dread clench at his guts, leaving a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not once in his life, had he felt so lost and afraid, so inadequate. He felt like he was back in Afghanistan praying to God, only this time it wasn't his life on the line, but the life of the man he loved so much that he would do anything it took to keep him alive. But there was nothing he could do but pray and praying seemed so pointless, like a waste of time. It wasn't enough. And it made him feel sick.

The car shot through a set of red traffic lights at a speed far above the speed limit, occasionally running on the pavement to avoid the traffic jam building up. John watched through the car's tinted window how the shocked faces of pedestrians were left behind, and in that moment, he felt infinitely grateful that Mycroft Holmes existed.

Mycroft had, unsurprisingly, already managed to get an appointment for Sherlock at a private hospital, the name of which John hadn't bothered to memorise. Despite the rivalry between the brothers, John knew that Mycroft cared immensely about his younger brother. The man had helped Sherlock so many times and in so many ways, once or twice even saving him from dying of an overdose, that John felt like he was forever in his debt; if it wasn't for Mycroft, the love of his life would already be dead.

John hadn't hesitated for a second to call him, and he hadn't been the slightest bit surprised when the black car had appeared outside 221B Baker Street before their phone call had even ended.

John had helped Sherlock get dressed. It had been painful to watch Sherlock fumbling for the trousers that had been discarded on the floor in their rush to the bed the night before. He had tried so hard to act as if nothing had changed, willing John to remain calm, not to worry.

But the peacefulness of the morning was a distant memory, his calmness was gone, replaced with fear and worry. John felt like a coward. He was the one who should have remained calm, he was a soldier after all: trained to handle stressful situations, trained to cope with death and grief. But he couldn't remain calm. He was frightened. The love of his life needed comfort, he needed John to be there for him, but all John could do was stand there and try to swallow back his tears.

He had lifted the trousers up from the floor, handed them to Sherlock, and without saying a word, John had brushed his hand over Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock's body had tensed in response to the unexpected stimulus, making his jaw clench, his body getting ready to flee from danger.

Neither of them had said a word.

John had taken Sherlock's arm on his shoulder and helped him descend the seventeen stairs of their apartment, placing his right arm securely around Sherlock's slim waist, trying to convey through his body language that he would take care of him, help him through this.

John wanted to believe that they would get through this, he needed to, because there was no way he could live without him. He wouldn't be able to bear it, should he lose Sherlock for good. It was so simple, yet so profound. They were meant to be together. Like sun and moon, light and dark, day and night, they were fully and completely dependent on each other.

In Sherlock, John had found himself, and he didn't want to get lost again.

“Stop it, John,” Sherlock said, his voice cracking on the last word.

“What?” John asked, pulling himself out from his musings, noticing Sherlock frowning, visibly annoyed by the weakness of his voice.

“You are thinking. It annoys me.” The words spat out of his mouth as Sherlock tried to hide his emotions from John, but his expression betrayed him, fear apparent on his face.

John swallowed, the saliva in his mouth felt suddenly thick as glue. He wasn't ready for this, not ready to deal with a man unwilling to show his weakness, unwilling to say he was scared, that he needed comfort. That he needed John.

John knew that he should have said something. He should have said that he wasn't going anywhere, that he was going to keep annoying him with his thoughts whether Sherlock wanted it or not, but the words got stuck in his throat, burning him from the inside.

He wanted to make Sherlock feel better, to make him feel loved, but he didn't know how to do it when he himself felt so afraid.

It should have been an ordinary Sunday morning: soft, slow kisses leading to Sherlock pleading his name, begging him to continue, to take him into oblivion. John would have felt Sherlock's body trembling beneath him, John's every thrust consuming him, soft cries and harsh breaths. Sherlock's lips everywhere, sending hot shivers down his spine, taking him over the edge.

It should have been a lovely morning. But it wasn't. It was one of those mornings that seemed so peaceful in the rising sun, yet turned out to be a nightmare.

And John felt like he was having a nightmare. He wanted desperately for Sherlock to wake him up, telling him that it was just a bad dream, cradling his wavering body, placing soothing kisses on the top of his head. _It's okay, John. It was just a bad dream. It's okay. You are okay. I love you. I'm here._

But it wasn't a nightmare. And John couldn't bring himself to say anything to comfort Sherlock, so he remained silent.

 

* * *

 

The familiar odour of antiseptic didn't make John feel at home this time. He felt as if the white walls of the waiting room were slowly closing in, making him feel like an animal trapped in a cage.

At that moment, John hated the hospital. He hated everything about it; the sounds, the smells; he hated all the people inside it. He hated that day, that particular Sunday. And above all, he hated himself.

Sherlock had requested that John stayed in the waiting room, and he had agreed without hesitation. John had left the most important person in his life alone with strangers. Sherlock was sick, possibly dying, and he couldn't handle being in the same room while the doctors were examining him. Now Sherlock was alone somewhere, being poked and prodded, with electrodes stuck into his bare skin, not being able to see what was happening.

Sherlock was alone and it was all John's fault. He was a _bloody_ coward.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'd like to remind you that I'm open to constructive criticism. Even if it's just a grammatical error you noticed, please let me know, so I can correct it.  
> I'd love to hear what you think! (If you hate it, please, don't let me know.)  
> Again, thank you for taking the time to check out my story, I hope you enjoy reading it! :)

He was surrounded by strangers, the cold examining table cold against his back, needles penetrating his skin, unfamiliar hands touching his body. The hospital gown draped over his body felt foreign, the cotton cool and harsh against his bare skin, making him feel vulnerable and exposed.

He heard a monitor beeping in the background, the voices of three—no, four—people in the room, shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

Despite the people around him, he felt more alone than he had ever before. He felt more alone than he had on that cold November night, lying on his bathroom floor, cocaine pumping through his veins. More alone than on that miserably hot August afternoon when he had come home from school, only to realise that Redbeard was gone for good. More alone than he had felt hiding in the locker room on his sixteenth birthday, throbbing pain in his nose, blood running from his nostrils, the word "freak" echoing in his head.

He felt so alone that he thought he was dying, dying, because if he wasn't dying, God knew what it would feel like.

Sherlock Holmes had always considered showing emotions as a sign of weakness and love as a dangerous disadvantage. How ironic it would be if he were to die of a broken heart.

He should have known it. He should have known that it wasn't going to last forever. It had all been too perfect, thinking back on it now, and he had acted like an idiot, like a love-struck teenage boy, believing that this time life would be fair, that it was finally his turn to be happy, to be loved.

He had been so wrong. So _incredibly_ wrong.

A calm voice of a middle-aged man—obviously the doctor—spoke to him from his left, telling him that he was going to examine his eyes with an ophthalmoscope. The doctor had a Scottish accent, his voice a low, gentle tone. He spoke slowly, dragging out his words, as if he was soothing a crying baby. But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to calm down. He didn't want to hear the doctor, he wanted him to shut up.

The only voice he wanted, hoped to hear, was John's. And he hoped, hoped so much, that John would come to him, wind his strong arms around him and talk to him in his beautiful voice. His voice was always so warm and gentle that Sherlock felt like he would melt if he listened to it too long. His every word was filled with so much affection and love that Sherlock's heart felt as if it would burst out of his chest.

John was always showing him how much he cared, in both words and actions, and he had started to believe that John really loved him. It hadn't been easy. Sherlock had had a hard time understanding why someone so perfect would love someone like him, him who was so arrogant, inconsiderate, obnoxious, rude—some people had even called him heartless.

But oh, how wrong they had been. Sherlock certainly had a heart, and now it was breaking, shattering into a million pieces, because of John.

Sherlock didn't care about the pain in his head, he could tolerate it, he had endured much worse than it. The hammering pain wasn't pleasant—and yes, it hurt. But it didn't hurt as badly as his heart.

Sherlock wanted to tell the doctor to stop, stop examining him, to let him be. To let him die. What would it matter if he did? If John left him, he would gladly die. There was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson. He would cease to exist without him, his world would crumble. The earth would still turn on its axis, the sun would still rise in the morning. John would find someone new, he would love again, but Sherlock wouldn't be there to witness it.

He wouldn't be able to live, to function, without John. He couldn't bear even thinking about it. He had opened his soul, let down his guard, poured his heart out to John, and now he was being punished for it.

Without his sight, he would be needy and useless, worth nothing to John. How long would John stay with him?

Maybe he would stay for a while, a few weeks perhaps, to avoid being too obvious, but then he would leave. John would collect his laptop, fold his countless jumpers and walk out the front door of 221B Baker Street, never to return. John would leave him, and Sherlock would understand, it would break his heart, but he would understand.

He wouldn't be able to offer John the life he deserved, not without his sight. John hadn't asked for a baby to take care of; he had more important things to do than to help Sherlock dress, help him shower, help him do everything. John had got bored with his job as a GP. He would get bored with Sherlock. John craved his daily dose of adrenaline; he wouldn't get it with a man who didn't manage to spread butter on his bread.

John deserved so much more.

His beautiful John.

Sherlock didn't cry often. He had learned early on that crying meant weakness and the weak would not survive; they would be eliminated from the gene pool by natural selection. Only the fittest and strongest would live, and strong people didn't cry, didn't weep. Sherlock was strong. Or, at least, he had been.

Now it didn't matter anymore, so he cried. He cried silently, but he cried, letting his tears wet his cheeks, leaving glistening trails down his face. Not a single sob escaped his lips as he lay there, not caring if someone saw him. To hell with being strong. To hell with his pride.

“Are you all right, Mr Holmes?” the concerned voice of the doctor came from his right. Sherlock could almost hear his frown.

_All right?_ No. No, he wasn't bloody all right. How could he be?

He was lying in the cold examination room, waiting for the world, his world, to end. He had lost his sight and he was going to lose the love of his life, the love of John, too. He was exhausted.

He didn't trust his voice enough to speak. Clenching his fists at his sides, he let out a shuddering breath and managed a nod.

“Very well, Mr Holmes. Now, the nurse will take you for the CT scan. You can relax, we'll help you move onto the stretcher.”

Then there were hands under his arms, lifting him up.

Sherlock imagined they were John's hands, holding him, making sure he didn't fall over. John's strong, weather-beaten hands. Hands that always caressed him so gently, hands that ran through his hair, playing with his curls. Hands that cupped his cheeks softly, tilting his face up for a kiss. His warm and loving hands.

He felt pathetic. He _was_ pathetic.

Just as he tried to shake the images from his mind, he felt someone squeezing his hand.

_Oh._ Oh, God.

Sherlock would recognise that touch anywhere. He didn't need to see to know to whom that hand belonged. That hand, woven together with his.

Maybe, Sherlock thought, just maybe, he wouldn't die tonight after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! <3  
> First of all, thank you so much to everyone who reads, comments, leaves kudos, and bookmarks! It means the world to me :)  
> This chapter is a bit longer than the previous ones, and to be honest, I'm very unsure of it.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!  
> 

John Watson had always known that Sherlock Holmes was a dangerous man. In some inexplicable, indescribable way, he had known that from the beginning, from the first second he had laid eyes on those dark, unruly curls, and caught a glimpse of those brilliantly blue eyes, he had known. And no matter how much John dodged, refused, or denied, it always came back to that simple fact in the end. It was the naked truth. Period. No use embellishing it.

He was dangerous, but not in the usual meaning of the word. Sherlock wasn't a criminal, nor was he a cold-blooded murderer. Sherlock could be rude and inconsiderate, that's for sure, but he certainly wasn't evil. John had had the chance to see what lurked beneath his seemingly controlled exterior, and it had been shocking to find out how vulnerable and insecure Sherlock was behind his logical and unemotional demeanour. Whenever Sherlock did something that was possibly risky, he would look at John like a guilty puppy, his eyes glistening, pale cheeks flushed, worrying that he had upset John. He needed reassurance, and he craved John's admiration. And John was more than happy to give him what he wanted. John felt privileged to be the one to see his softer, more human side, and he was unwilling to share him, feeling almost possessive of him.

But despite all that, the fact remained. Sherlock Holmes was a dangerous man.

He was dangerous, because he had crashed into John's life, all of a sudden, without warning, and turned it around, setting off an earthquake inside him, throwing everything he once knew to be true into disarray. John had been living alone, night after night haunted by nightmares, languishing in miserable loneliness. He had returned from Afghanistan injured and traumatised, unable to see the meaning of life, feeling lost and broken. Then he had met Sherlock Holmes, and their friendship had saved his life, changing it irrevocably.

John couldn't envision life without him, not anymore, because life without him would no longer be worth living. And he knew he was screwed, because the only thing that kept him alive was Sherlock. If Sherlock were to draw his last breath in that hospital, John would curse God and die too. He had grown so dependent on Sherlock, so addicted to him. He was like a drug, a dangerous drug, that made every fiber of John's being crave him, want him, _need_ him.

If John had never bumped into Mike Stamford, if he had never mentioned that he wanted to move, he wouldn't be sitting in that hospital waiting room, waiting, dreading to hear his worst fears confirmed. If he hadn't met Sherlock, he would have probably dated women, had shallow, short-term relationships, never really falling in love with anyone. He wouldn't have been happy. But then, he wouldn't have been unhappy, either. He would have lived without the fear of getting hurt, getting his heart broken.

But they had met, and John had fallen in love.

Falling in love with Sherlock had been inevitable, inescapable; there was no doubt, no question about it. John wasn't sure if he believed in fate, or destiny, but he liked to think that their first meeting had been just as inevitable, too. He believed, wanted to believe, that it hadn't been coincidence that had sent Mike to Russell Square Gardens on that seemingly ordinary morning. The mere thought of having never met Sherlock gave him an uneasy, unpleasant feeling he couldn't explain or put a name to. It just felt so utterly, completely wrong.

Their first kiss had been natural, as if they had both known all along that they were heading toward that moment. It had started out tentative and soft and lovely, but had grown quickly more demanding, as if they were trying to make up for all the lost years. John had never felt so happy, so perfectly right. Despite feeling like he had waited forever to be kissed like that, John's life didn't culminate in that moment; rather, it began a new chapter in an old story, their story.

Love had made them inseparable, they were one in every sense of the word—if Sherlock died, John would die, too. He had always known that one day it would come to this. He would get his heart broken, one way or another. And Sherlock would be the one to break it.

But as he sat in that waiting room, pondering his life, he realised that he wouldn't really mind. Whether it was fate, luck, or coincidence, he didn't regret having bumped into Mike Stamford, he didn't regret having mentioned that he wanted to move. And he damn sure didn't regret having met Sherlock Holmes.

And it was at that moment John knew where he had to be, what he had to do. He felt like he was back on the battlefield, his heart filled with courage, ready to fight for his love, for Sherlock. He rose from the cushioned waiting room chair, straightened his back and squared his shoulders, settling into a soldier's stance. _Into battle_.

“Did you come to your senses then?”

John froze for half a second before turning around toward the source of the voice. A grunt of annoyance escaped his lips as he saw Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella, studying him with that all-knowing gaze of his. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit, perfectly tailored to fit his tall, sturdy frame, and a silver watch chain peeked out from his waistcoat pocket. The suit was expensive enough to make him stand out among the others in the waiting room. He looked exactly like what he was—a powerful, important man. A man who had a high position in the British Government.

“Please, don't,” John sighed, letting his shoulders fall forward.

Mycroft lifted a brow. “I didn't come here to offend you,” he said patiently, holding John's gaze. John almost rolled his eyes, but then thought better of it when he noticed the strange expression on the man's face, as though he was holding back tears. It was so uncharacteristic of him to show such vulnerability that John couldn't help but feel as if he had just imagined the whole thing.

“I just thought you could use some advice,” Mycroft added after a short pause, looking uncomfortable as he eyed the black umbrella in his hand.

“Look—” John began, pausing as understanding dawned on him. Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes, John thought, was going to give him relationship advice. The thought made him cringe internally. He wouldn't want to hear it if his life depended on it. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat, not knowing what to say.

Mycroft sighed and raised his eyes again to meet John's gaze. He pursed his lips, as if considering whether or not to share his thoughts, and John could see the hesitation in his eyes. Mycroft opened his mouth, but then closed it. After what felt like minutes, he sighed again.

“I—” John began, but Mycroft stopped him.

“He needs you.” His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed his desperation.

John felt his stomach sink, the collar of his jumper suddenly feeling tight. He had never before seen Mycroft show weakness, never seen him show any sign of emotion other than annoyance, yet here he stood, helplessly, worry written all over his face. It was almost too much to bear, seeing him, the most powerful man in London, so helpless, knowing that this time he didn't know what to do, couldn't help his little brother. As John saw Mycroft's eyes pleading with him to understand, he felt like he couldn't breathe, the guilt weighing him down.

John closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, but before he could say anything, Mycroft spoke again, “Third floor, room twenty-six. I have already informed the doctor that you are coming.”

In other circumstances, John would have been annoyed, even angry, because he hated being told what to do, especially by Mycroft, but for now, the only thing he cared about was Sherlock. He had to find him, and save him, just like Sherlock had saved him.

John swallowed against the thick lump in his throat. Mycroft looked like he wanted to say more but couldn't bring himself to find the words. The air was thick with emotion that neither of them dared express. They stayed silent for a long time until Mycroft nodded and turned to walk away, leaving John standing alone in the middle of the waiting room.

“Mycroft,” John stopped him. He felt like he had to say something, anything. Mycroft turned around and cocked a questioning brow at him. John hesitated, afraid that his voice would break. He had never thought it possible to feel so many emotions at once. Guilt, fear, sorrow, regret—all flooding through his body, making him feel sick. John cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Thank you.” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, but he felt relieved that he had managed to get the words out.

A faint, sad smile played over Mycroft's lips.

“Go save my little brother.”

 

* * *

 

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

The sight that greeted John in room number twenty-six sent a wave of pain through his chest. John had seen Sherlock cry before, but when he cried, it was almost always for a case, nothing more than an act, a way to gain information, to prove a point. But this time he wasn't acting.

Sherlock was lying on a stretcher, a white hospital gown covering his naked body. His eyes were bloodshot and teary, staring into emptiness. Sherlock wasn't making his usual witty remarks, not deducing the medical staff in the room. It was so unnatural to see him lying there so helpless, his beautiful, brilliant Sherlock.

John took a wavering breath and stepped inside the examining room. As the doctor noticed him, he gave a short nod and waved the others to follow him. John heard the door close behind him and the room fell silent. Not knowing what to say, he took three trembling steps to reach Sherlock's side and grabbed his hand, squeezing it.

He was so sorry.

“Sherlock...” John began, but he let the sentence trail off, at loss for words.

“You don't have to be here, John.”

John swallowed and closed his eyes, Sherlock's words hitting him like a punch to his gut. He hated himself for letting Sherlock believe that he didn't want to be with him, and he hated himself for leaving him alone.

“I know I don't have to,” John said, his voice strangled. “The thing is, Sherlock, that I want to.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

John heard Sherlock take a shuddering breath.

John leaned closer and laid his lips on the crown of Sherlock's head, breathing in his scent, feeling each one of his exhalations as a warm puff of air against his throat. “I love you, and I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you,” John whispered the words, placing light kisses on his forehead, brow, nose, and chin.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his breathing uneven.

“I'm here. I'm here, love, and I'm not leaving.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered again, and John saw his lip tremble.

John pressed his lips gently against his, wanting to kiss away the trembling.

“Whatever it is, we'll get through this, Sherlock,” John said, “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated! <3


	6. Chapter 6

John's phone kept buzzing against his thigh, but he ignored it, focusing instead on Sherlock, whose slim body was slumped on a hospital bed, half-covered by a sheet, his bare arms lying limply at his sides, his head propped up by a pillow. They were waiting for the CT scan results in an otherwise empty examining room. Silence had settled over the room, broken only by the buzzing sound from his pocket and the quiet beeping of monitors.

John let his eyes rest on Sherlock's face, taking in the way the light played over his features. The harsh fluorescent lighting made him look even paler than he was, emphasising his prominent cheekbones, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. John had dragged a plastic chair beside the bed and was now perched on it, resting his hand on Sherlock's, gently caressing his palm with his thumb, drawing lazy circles against the soft flesh, soothing the man with the slow motion. Sherlock had let his eyelids fall shut, but John was familiar enough with his breathing pattern to know that he was still awake. He had spent sleepless nights listening to his every breath, watching his chest rise and fall, trying to slow down his own breathing to match his, unable to sleep because his mind refused to stop thinking about Sherlock, their relationship, dreading that Sherlock would eventually get bored and leave. The fear was always in the back of his mind, hovering at the edge of his thoughts, something he would never get rid of, the unavoidable side effect of being in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was drowsy from the pain medication the doctor had given him, lying motionless with his eyes closed. The only movement John could detect was the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. At first, Sherlock had refused to take any medicine, for fear of falling asleep, but John had insisted he took the pills, when he had seen that Sherlock was covered in a light film of perspiration, sweat drops forming on his forehead, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed in a thin line. John knew that Sherlock could tolerate a lot of pain without complaining, without the slightest expression of discomfort, so seeing him wince, pain excruciatingly apparent on his features, was more than John could bear. “Please, Sherlock, for me,” he had said, and to his surprise, Sherlock, who was without a doubt the most stubborn human being he had ever encountered, hadn't rolled his eyes, hadn't sighed in exasperation. Sherlock had tossed the pills in his mouth and swallowed all three of them without further argument. “For you,” he had said, closing his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock said so faintly that John wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't seen his lips move.

John nodded, encouraging him to continue. Sherlock frowned impatiently, and John realised that he couldn't see him, didn't see him nod. John pressed his eyes closed, fighting the emotions threatening to break through to the surface again. “Yeah?” John forced the word out of his mouth, cringing at the sound of his voice.

“Who's texting you?”

“Nobody.”

“You obviously can't get text messages from nobody,” Sherlock said, emphasising the last word in a tone that implied an eye roll.

John wished that Sherlock would just drop the subject; he didn't want to think about the messages, he didn't want to think about anything except Sherlock. The only thing that mattered to John was that Sherlock would be all right. Everything else could wait. “It's nothing important.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please, do be sensible, John. You haven't even taken your mobile phone out of your pocket, how would you know?” His voice was still slurry from the medication, but his annoyance was apparent.

John sighed and drew the buzzing device from his pocket. He had never been good at saying no to Sherlock, never been able to deny him anything. All his instincts told him to obey Sherlock, obey without questioning. There were six new messages, all from Greg Lestrade.

_12:58 PM_

_Tell Sherlock to answer his phone. We need to talk._

_12:59 PM_

_I'm serious, do it NOW._

_1:00 PM_

_Oh, for God's sake John, you're not answering me either?_

_1:01 PM_

_I swear, if you're avoiding me..._

_1:02 PM_

_Of course, yes, I'm sorry to disturb you two love birds but duty calls._

_1:02 PM_

_Answer your bloody phone! This is URGENT._

“Well?”

“Yeah, nobody important, just some—” John began, trying to sound convincing as he pressed the mute button on his mobile phone, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Do you seriously think that I don't hear it in your voice when you're lying? I'm blind, not deaf, John.”

“Sherlock, don't.” He meant to sound demanding but it came out like a plea. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to be any more upset. John knew that it was Sherlock's work that kept him going, kept him away from drugs; the thrill of solving a case, piecing together puzzles, the satisfaction of being right. But now there were other things, Sherlock's health and well-being, to worry about, and Sherlock needed to relax and forget about being the world's only consulting detective for a while. John didn't want to think about what would happen if Sherlock remained blind, if he was unable to work, unable to get his daily dose of adrenaline.

“It's Graham, isn't it? There's a case.”

“What—” John paused for a moment, studying Sherlock's face. “Greg. His name is Greg.”

“I—”

“No.”

“I could just—”

“Sherlock. No,” John told him firmly, the determination in his voice surprising him. “You need to rest, and I'll make sure you do. Greg can wait. And so can the case.” It wasn't a request. It was a demand.

A hurt expression appeared on Sherlock's face. John saw Sherlock's lips curl downward; he looked like a child denied candy, his brows knitted into a frustrated frown. Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly away from him and subsided into a sulky silence.

It was uncharacteristic of Sherlock to give up so easily, but John thought that the pain medication was numbing his mind, playing tricks with that brilliant brain of his.

John checked his mobile phone, but there were no new messages. For a moment, his finger hovered over the keys, wondering what to tell Greg. He didn't want to tell him that Sherlock was blind; writing it down would make it more concrete, more real, more tangible. He didn't want to think about it. The denial helped him feel safe. Finally, he came to the conclusion that there was no good way to say it, and typed his message and sent it off.

_1:06 PM_

_We are at the hospital._

_1:07 PM_

_Shit. Sorry. What happened?_

_1:07 PM_

_Do you want me to come there?_

_1:07 PM_

_No, we'll be fine. I'll call you later._

As John tucked his mobile phone back into his pocket, he tried not to think about all the possible causes of sudden vision loss, but the strong odour of antiseptic and latex, reminding him of his medical degree, made it difficult. In his career, he had seen a few patients with acute-onset total blindness, but in almost all cases their vision loss had been caused by trauma, and John was fairly certain that Sherlock hadn't suffered any physical injuries recently. But then again, he could never be sure. Sherlock was always putting himself in dangerous situations in order to escape, as he would say, the dullness of _ordinary_ life. He needed stimulation, the thrill of excitement, the rush he got from exposing himself to danger. Sherlock went to great lengths not to be bored. He loved the feeling of adrenaline surging through his body, the way all his senses seemed heightened when he was jumping across rooftops, chasing criminals down dark alleys. Not that John could blame him—he was equally addicted to adrenaline. Only one month after returning from Afghanistan, he had already missed the way he felt strong in the face of danger; he had a craving for unpredictability. It was ironic; having the possibility of death so close made him feel more alive.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. The doctor entered the room and walked over to them. “Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,” the man said politely, giving John a little nod, “How are you doing, Mr Holmes?” From the corner of his eye John saw Sherlock's body tense momentarily.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. “Fine,” he said, after a moment's hesitation, sounding defeated.

“What's his condition?” John couldn't wait any longer.

The doctor glanced at John but returned his gaze to Sherlock. “The good news is that there is no sign of a brain tumour,” the doctor began, his face unreadable. John held his breath. "However, your intracranial pressure has increased and it has lead to the swelling of your optic nerve. This—”

John cut him short. “Does he need surgery?”

The doctor paused for a second before continuing, “Yes. We need to drain the excess cerebrospinal fluid. We don't know yet what caused this, but we are doing our best to find out.”

John let out the breath he had been holding. “Will his vision return?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wanted them back, already knowing what the doctor's answer was going to be. He felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

“It's impossible to say yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!  
> P.S. I have a big exam coming up in a few weeks, so I might not be able to update until then. But don't worry, I'll be back as soon as I can! Take care. XX


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> I'm so so so sorry that it took me this long to update, but studying got in the way. It's not always easy to be a medical student, I'm telling you haha. I hope that you are still interested in finding out how this story ends. This chapter is really short (sorry again), but I just felt like I had to publish something as soon as possible.  
> Please, let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy!  
> Take care <3

The waiting was unbearable. With the sound of the steadily ticking clock, echoing through the almost empty waiting room, John wrung his fingers nervously, casting a desperate glance toward the wall clock every other minute. He wanted to see Sherlock. He _needed_ to see him. He needed to know that Sherlock was alive, breathing, blood flowing through his veins into his right atrium, through the tricuspid valve into his right ventricle and forward, his cardiac myocytes contracting in synchrony, pumping the blood into the systemic circulation to nourish every fibre of his body. John needed to feel Sherlock’s pulse pounding in his wrists, feel the soft breath from his nostrils, his lungs expanding as they filled with air. Knowing that Sherlock was alive wasn’t enough—John needed to feel his presence in every cell of his being.

Sitting in that waiting room, having nothing but time, John let his thoughts wander into vain regrets, bringing back painful memories. John regretted every time he had been too afraid to tell Sherlock that he loved him. He regretted every time he could have said the words but he hadn’t. He regretted every time he had denied his feelings for Sherlock, just because he had been too scared, scared to love, scared of his sexuality. He had been too ashamed to admit that he was in love with a man, and he hated himself for it, for being ashamed of loving the most brilliant human being he had ever encountered. He had wasted so much time, and he had hurt Sherlock in the process. And now John was afraid that he didn’t have enough time left to make up for his mistakes.

John looked at the clock again. The surgery should have ended already; based on his experience as a doctor, John had estimated how long it would take to insert a lumbar CSF drainage catheter, and for half an hour, he had jerked his head up every time he heard a nurse or a doctor enter the waiting room, expecting his name to be called next, but it was never called. John hadn’t been allowed inside the operating room despite his best efforts at negotiation, and he was frustrated, scared, desperate, and above all of the other things, he felt helpless.

An unsettling feeling had begun to gnaw at the pit of his stomach, and the fear that the surgery had gone wrong grew within him. A misplaced catheter tip, one miscalculation, one misunderstood instruction—all it would take was a single mistake, one tiny false move. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust doctors; he knew they would do their best. And John knew it was an excellent hospital, because Mycroft had chosen it, and he wouldn’t let anyone other than a licensed professional to take care of his little brother. No, it wasn’t lack of trust that made him scared. It was the possibility that he was worried about, the possibility that something could go wrong. The possibility of mistake was, however unlikely, always there, weighing heavily on his faith. And he was so tired, and he would have preferred not to delve too deeply into what could possibly go wrong, he would have wanted to stop his useless panicked thoughts that kept circling in his mind, slipping him into a dreadful state of agitation, but he couldn’t keep his mind from cataloguing the possible outcomes.

John scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the short stubble that he hadn’t had time to shave that morning abrade his skin. His eyelids felt heavy. Everything about his body felt heavy as if his blood had been replaced by lead. The fear was dissipating into exhaustion. More than anything he wanted to go back home, back to yesterday when everything was still safe and normal and perfect. And he would take Sherlock in his arms and tell him how much he loved him. He would kiss each and every one of his freckles, touch every spot of his pale skin, trace his finger along the outline of each of his ribs. And in that moment John promised himself that he would do that after they got home from that bloody hospital. He promised himself that he would do everything in his power to ensure that Sherlock knew how much he loved him, wanted him, and needed him.

“Doctor Watson?”

At hearing those two words, John became alert, his heart rate quickening. He lifted his face up and found the doctor’s eyes regarding him. John tried to read his expression, but his features remained neutral, his manner bland. “Yes?” John said sounding breathless, standing up, hearing his pulse thumping violently in his ears. The moment seemed to stretch and stretch, growing into infinity, charged with tension, as John held his breath waiting for a response. The air around him stilled, the world seemed to stop on its axis. His chest tightened, constricting his lungs, preventing him from taking in much needed air. Everything depended on the doctor’s next words. One wrong word and his life would come crashing down on him, shattering into a million pieces, pieces that would tear his heart apart beyond repair.


	8. Chapter 8

The heart monitor was beeping steadily, filling the otherwise silent room with the rhythm of Sherlock’s beating heart. John let the sound comfort him, lull him into a state of ease, as he caressed Sherlock’s limp fingers, feeling every joint, every line of his slender digits. His hand was pale and cool to the touch, but he was alive. He was breathing, his rib cage expanding as he calmly drew air into his lungs through an oxygen tube that ran into his nostrils under a transparent plastic mask that covered his nose and mouth.

In the comparing between all the sounds that John had ever heard in his life, this was undoubtedly, he thought, the most perfect one—the steady beep of the heart monitor that told him the one thing he longed to hear, the one thing he so desperately needed to hear.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ Sherlock was alive.

When the doctor had told him that Sherlock’s vital signs were normal and his condition stable, John had felt immensely relieved and grateful, as if a weight he didn’t know he was carrying had been lifted from his shoulders. But seeing Sherlock lying there motionless, in a hospital bed, still under anaesthesia with his dark unruly curls damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead, electrodes taped to his bare chest, brought a sharp twisting ache to his chest and made any real happiness evaporate into thin air. He looked so vulnerable lying against the white sheets with all those machines connected to his body and tubes running out of him. He looked so helpless, so fragile, as though he would break under the slightest pressure and shatter into a million pieces like a fine porcelain vase if John were to drape his arms around his narrow waist, pulling his still body into a tight embrace.

John felt as if they had been in the hospital forever, but a glance at the clock hanging on the wall told him that it was half past eight. The day hadn’t even ended, and yet the morning felt so far away, as though the happiness he had felt while lying in bed next to Sherlock was just a distant, dream-like memory. John stifled a weary sigh, focusing his gaze back on Sherlock’s peaceful face. Oddly enough, he looked so young, all his features softened, his lips slightly parted behind the oxygen mask, his dark eyelashes resting on his cheekbones, and a mixed sensation of affection and sadness developed within John.

“Oh God, I love you,” John whispered aloud, although he knew Sherlock couldn’t hear him. His voice was hoarse with emotion, and John instantly cringed as his eyes threatened to fill with tears. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to cry, and he was too exhausted to think any further on the matter. Instead, he blinked several times, forcing the tears to stay back.

Watching the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, his skin stretched taut over his protruding ribs, John found himself waiting in agony for Sherlock to come out of the anaesthesia. Of course he wanted Sherlock to wake up—it was the only thing that really mattered to him at the moment—but he was afraid that the operation hadn’t restored his vision. He was afraid that Sherlock would open his eyes only to realise that he was still blind and would almost certainly remain blind, being forced to rely on his hearing and his sense of touch for the rest of his life. And John knew that Sherlock didn’t like being forced to do anything. Rather, Sherlock hated it, and it never went unnoticed by anyone.

However, John wasn’t afraid for his own sake. No, he didn’t care if Sherlock was blind or not; it did not change his feelings for him in any way. His feelings were a constant, the one thing that persisted in the unpredictable mess he called his life. He would love Sherlock not despite his flaws, nor because of them, but in spite of all and because of everything. Even if Sherlock were to become deprived of all his five senses, even if he couldn’t make his fantastic deductions any more, even if he had to give up his work and stop being the world’s only consulting detective, John would love him with all his heart, all his soul, and all his strength. As long as Sherlock stayed with him, John knew that he could find joy in all the repetitive, mundane tasks of everyday life—doing the laundry, going grocery shopping, washing dishes, and cooking meals. Hell, he even enjoyed brushing his teeth when Sherlock was there to share the moment, wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, staring back at John in the bathroom mirror, his eyes dark and promising, anticipation lingering in the air between them.

John knew deep inside that he would never stop loving Sherlock. He couldn’t stop loving him even if he tried, and God knew he had tried. He really had.

There was no way he could stop loving the person who had had such a profound impact on his life. Sherlock had made him feel so alive, made him realise that life was worth living, saved him from his paralysing depression. Hell, Sherlock had saved his life. Before he had met Sherlock, there had been far too many nights when he had held his gun in his hands, feeling a great temptation to pull the trigger.

No, he wasn’t afraid for his own sake. Whatever was going to happen, John knew for damn sure that his feelings wouldn’t change. It was Sherlock he was worried about. He was worried that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to accept his blindness. There was a strong link between his eyesight and his deductions; his eyes never stopped working. They were always scanning the surroundings, _observing_. And it was Sherlock’s power of deduction that made him the world’s only consulting detective. Without work, without stimulation, his mind would become uncontrollable, a mess of overwhelming thoughts and ideas, and John knew he would seek some way of channelling his energy. John feared that he would return to his old bad habits, to the life he had left behind. The mere thought gave John a complete sense of powerlessness. Watching the love of his life slowly destroy his mind and body would destroy John, too.

The fear that he wasn’t enough for Sherlock was nagging at the back of his mind, sending a shiver down his spine. John closed his eyes, battling the stinging sensation behind his eyelids that threatened to turn him into a sobbing mess. The events of the day, John thought, had transformed him into a coward, into a man incapable of controlling his inner turmoil. _Damn it_ , John cursed under his breath. He was a bloody soldier. He wasn’t going to cry. If Sherlock had, although it was unlikely, regained his vision, John didn’t want his tear-stained face and bloodshot eyes to be the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

There was a knock on the door, and a nurse entered the recovery room. “Doctor Watson?” she said, looking at John with a questioning smile. The nurse was a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a white uniform, her dark hair piled on top of her head. Her smile seemed friendly and genuine, but John noticed that her eyes stayed focused on his hand caressing Sherlock’s a moment too long.

John swallowed to get rid of the lump forming in his throat, nodded and motioned for her to continue.

“I’m just here to check his vital signs.” The nurse stood still, looking at John, as if waiting for permission. John managed another nod and a brief smile. He knew that Sherlock’s vital signs were normal—he had checked the monitors every five minutes for the last half hour—but he wanted to hear the words out loud, as if hearing them would make it more real.

John watched the nurse, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand, as she proceeded to check the monitors, writing down the results on a chart in her hand.

“Everything looks fine and his vital signs are stable,” the nurse said, smiling reassuringly. “I’ll be back to check up on him again in a little while. Just ring the bell if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” His voice sounded weak, tired, and he thought that he saw a look of pity on her face as she nodded and walked away, leaving him alone with Sherlock in the dimly lit recovery room.

Resting his hand on top of Sherlock’s, John took a deep quavering breath, held it, and then let it out slowly, feeling the air tickle his nostrils. He forced himself to focus, to push his thoughts back to what truly mattered. Sherlock was alive. He was alive and his heart was beating in his chest. It didn’t matter if he had lost his eyesight or not. They would survive it together. They would survive _anything_ together.

All of a sudden, John felt Sherlock’s finger twitch under his touch and saw his muscles tense in his neck. John became alert and sat upright in his chair.

There was another twitch, stronger this time. John drew in a quick breath and waited. The anaesthesia was wearing off.

“Sherlock?” John whispered. He saw Sherlock’s forehead furrow as he slowly woke up. His heart monitor started beeping more frequently, pulsing with the quickening of his heartbeat.

“Shh, it’s all right, love. You’re all right.”

“John,” he said, his voice just above a whisper behind the oxygen mask.

“I’m here, Sherlock,” John said calmly, stroking Sherlock’s hand, listening as his heartbeat gradually returned to normal.

“John.” His voice was still faint but more urgent. Sherlock frowned, his brows knitting together, and his eyes fluttered open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all you lovely people, for your comments, kudos, bookmarks and subscriptions! It means a lot <3  
> I'm sorry for yet another cliffhanger, but I felt like that was the best way to end this chapter. I haven't decided if I prefer short chapters or not, but they fit my writing schedule better so I have kept them between 1000-2000 words. I hope it doesn't bother you too much :)  
> Anyway, without further rambling, thank you for reading!  
> Any thoughts?


	9. Chapter 9

When Sherlock woke up, it was dark. He found himself lying in a hospital bed, a white sheet draped over his body, a soft pillow under his head. He felt tired, exhausted, as he closed his eyes again and let the warmth of the bed lull him into a state of content. Sherlock was drifting off to sleep, his mind shutting down, letting him slip into a peaceful oblivion, when suddenly he heard a voice that made his eyes snap open.

Lifting himself up on his elbows, Sherlock tried to look around the room to find the source of the voice, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him. He was alone, surrounded only by machines that were turned off. Why were they turned off?

Squinting his eyes, he continued to scan the room for any sign of movement, any indication of the presence of someone else. Sherlock was certain that he had heard something. He had heard someone calling John’s name, but he didn’t recognise the voice. It was unmistakably male, but it sounded oddly weak, cracking.

“John”, the voice said again, this time more loudly. It sounded demanding, as if it was begging to be heard, begging to be noticed. Sherlock pinched his eyes shut, trying to identify the voice, but his memories were out of reach, melting like snowflakes when he tried to grasp them.

It was not until he heard the voice for the fifth time that he realised that it came from his own throat. It sounded hoarse to his own ears, pleading, barely audible in the empty room.

Disoriented, Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, trying to get control of his mind and body. It felt unreal. Everything felt unreal, as if his mind was detached from his body, as if he was floating in a dream, unable to grasp what was happening.

_Oh._

It had to be the drugs, he realised. They had given him a dose of anaesthetic before the operation.

_The operation._

As his mind was struggling to put the pieces together, Sherlock pushed the sheet away and slowly slid off the hospital bed, letting his feet touch the floor. The linoleum felt cold against his bare soles, the cool air tickling his exposed skin. Sherlock shivered, tempted to curl up under the comforting cocoon of the cotton sheet again, the thin hospital gown not offering much warmth. Instead, he rose to his feet, resisting the temptation, and took an experimental step forward, trying to coordinate his tired limbs.

Slowly, he was regaining control of his body, his head starting to clear, his vision coming into focus. It was dark, but he could see that he was in a typical hospital room. As he registered his surroundings, a thought broke through the remaining fog of his mind, fighting its way into his consciousness. Sherlock blinked, his mouth opening in surprise. He could see. The operation had restored his vision. He wasn’t blind. He could _see_.

A voice in the back of his mind was trying to tell him that he had been too slow, slow to observe, slow to realise that the consuming darkness was gone, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Choosing to blame the drugs rather than his brain, he pushed the thought aside and ignored the voice that was trying to make him feel stupid and incompetent.

A soft chuckle escaped his throat as he let his eyes wander around the room again, taking in every detail he could. There was a window opposite his bed, covered by a closed Venetian blind, shielding the room from curious eyes. Sherlock couldn’t resist a smile.

_I can see. I can see. I can see._

He kept repeating the three words over and over again in his head.

_I can see. I can see. I can see._

Sherlock saw a glass vase containing roses, the colour of which he couldn’t quite distinguish in the dark, standing on a table below the window. The roses caught his attention, and he frowned. Sherlock knew that Mycroft couldn’t possibly have sent them—he would never be capable of such an affectionate gesture—and no one else knew where he was. Unless, of course, his brother had told someone. Sherlock took a deep breath. Of _course_ he had told someone. His brother, convinced of his own superiority, never respected Sherlock’s ability to make his own decisions, never respected him enough to leave him alone. Sherlock let the breath out and shifted his gaze from the roses. He knew there was no use wasting his energy thinking about his idiotic brother.

The door to the room was slightly ajar, probably left open by an absent-minded nurse, Sherlock thought, or perhaps by John. _John_.

Where was John?

“John?” His voice sounded a bit stronger now, but there was still no answer.

John had promised him that he would be there when he woke up, and Sherlock knew that John wouldn’t have broken the promise. He wouldn’t have gone home and left him alone—he would never do that. John always kept his promises to Sherlock. _Always_.

Perhaps he had just gone to the toilet or to the hospital cafeteria to get a cup of coffee, Sherlock thought as he started walking toward the door, feeling a lump start to form in his throat.

He wanted to see John, his eyes filled with love for him, his lips curved into a relieved smile. Sherlock wanted to tell him that he was awake, that he could see. But John wasn’t there, and Sherlock sensed something odd he couldn’t quite decipher. He just felt that something was very wrong.

Feeling his chest tighten, Sherlock tried to convince himself that he was being paranoid, that it was just the drugs messing with his mind. He told himself that John would turn up any minute, his face breaking into a grin, and he would take Sherlock into his arms, making everything perfect again. As the thought sent a pleasant flutter to his stomach, Sherlock took the final steps to the door and opened it just enough to slip out of the room.

Sherlock was greeted by an empty hallway of blank white walls. It was silent, unnaturally quiet, as if he was in a vacuum where no sound could travel. He let his gaze wander around the hallway, taking in the sterile surroundings of a typical hospital. There were no windows, no clocks, but he knew it had to be late, because there was no one within hearing range. As he listened to the silence, the odd feeling intensified, tightening his chest.

After a moment’s hesitation, he began walking. The air seemed to be getting thicker, and Sherlock breathed through his mouth in an attempt to get more oxygen into his lungs. He hurried his pace, determined to find John, the only sounds being his harsh breathing and his footsteps, a mere whisper as his bare feet shuffled on the linoleum floor.

The smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the still air. It invaded his nostrils, burning the lining of his nose, and surrounded him like an invisible fog, and Sherlock found it harder to breathe with every step.

When he contemplated returning back to his room, he saw it. He saw a dim light at the end of the hallway. His breathing was becoming laboured, but he ignored it and started jogging toward the light, the hospital gown sticking to his sweaty skin.

Reaching the end of the hallway, Sherlock saw that the light was coming through an open door. He came to a halt, grabbing his chest, feeling his heart beating erratically through the damp fabric of his hospital gown. He was gasping for air, his vision blurring, when he suddenly heard a noise, a beeping sound coming from the room.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Sherlock straightened his back, feeling his senses heightened by the sudden surge of adrenaline that swept through him, and took a cautious step toward the open door. The beeping grew louder and louder, more frequent, as he took another step.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The sound drowned out his harsh breathing, hitting his eardrums like a hammer. He could feel the vibrations of the sound running through his body, and he mustered the courage to close the distance between him and the door. As he took the last step and entered the room, the light suddenly intensified. The beeping stopped. For a second, Sherlock could see nothing but blinding whiteness, and a deafening silence filled his ears. Then everything went black.

* * *

Sherlock felt himself lying in a bed again, a soft mattress giving way to his weight. His head felt heavy, his mind blurry. He heard the sound again, a steady beeping in the distance, but it was softer this time. He concluded that he must have fainted.

He fought the heaviness in his eyelids, but the tiredness he was experiencing threatened to overtake him, pulling him back into unconsciousness. His thoughts incomplete and unformed, Sherlock gave up the fight and surrendered to his exhaustion.

He was on the edge of sleep when he heard a voice that brought him back to alertness.

“Sherlock?”

It was his favourite voice, a voice he would recognise anywhere, the voice he always listened to.

Sherlock fought the crippling fatigue in him, forcing his body to obey him. He wanted to see John. He _needed_ to see him. Sherlock felt his forehead furrow, his finger twitch as he slowly reached the surface of consciousness. The beeping grew more frequent in the background. 

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice thick and slurry.

Using the last of his strength, he forced his eyes open.

“Welcome back, love,” John whispered.

Sherlock was faintly aware that his voice was soft and tender, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the darkness before his eyes. He blinked, but the darkness remained.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, but he sounded weak and strangled, and there was something against his mouth that muffled his voice—an oxygen mask. He tried to raise his hand to his face to remove it, but John stopped him.

“Easy, Sherlock. Let me help you.”

He felt John’s hands on his face, as he carefully removed the mask. Sherlock leaned into his touch, letting his eyelids flutter closed. There was only darkness, a suffocating blackness, and he couldn’t escape it. It was everywhere. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, and bit the inside of his cheek in order not to cry, but he couldn’t stop the single tear from escaping the corner of his eye.

“Hey. Shh, it’s all right.” Sherlock felt John kiss his eyelids, his eyebrow, and the tip of his nose. His hand wiped away the tear and brushed a curl off his forehead, coming to rest on Sherlock’s cheek, caressing it tenderly. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes again, only to find himself confronted with more darkness. “I still can’t see, John,” he spluttered, his voice breaking on the last syllable. He sounded so weak, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The relief he had felt earlier had evaporated. It had only been a dream.

“And I’m still here, Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock felt him press a kiss on his forehead, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again you lovely, lovely people! <3  
> Here's a new chapter, I hope you like it :)  
> P.S. Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry!!! This chapter has taken me way too long to write. Thanks to everyone who has stuck around, I really appreciate it :)  
> I can't wait for summer when I'm, hopefully, going to have much more time to write.  
> I'd also like to remind you that I'm not a native English speaker, so pointing out errors is more than welcome.  
> Again, thank you so so much for your support, you guys are the best!!

“We don’t know yet, I’m afraid,” the doctor said apologetically. “We’ll have to do more tests, and Mr Holmes needs to stay here overnight so we can keep an eye on him.”

Biting his lower lip, John fought the urge to sigh. He was tired of hearing those words: “We don’t know. We don’t know what caused his blindness. We don’t know if Mr Holmes is going to be all right. We don’t know if the love of your _fucking_ life is going to die. We don’t know.” He hated those words. Every time he heard them, something painful tugged at his chest, making him want to shout in frustration. He wanted to let down his guard and release the anger that boiled inside him, he wanted to hit something, rip something—anything—apart. He wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all, but he knew it was futile, so he maintained his composure like a proper soldier, harbouring the sense of frustration inside, letting it grow like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining momentum every second.

After all, John thought bitterly, he was good at keeping his feelings dammed up inside: it had taken two years and three shots of whiskey before the dam of longing for his flatmate had finally burst and released all his pent-up emotions. He had spent two years trying to deny what he knew was true. Two years of wishing, hoping that Sherlock would feel the same way about him, but always coming to the same conclusion that it was unlikely—impossible, even—because Sherlock didn’t feel things that way, he wasn’t interested in something so _dull_ as a relationship, something so _trivial_ as love. Two long years of pining for Sherlock, yearning for his touch, his taste, for his lips against his; wanting to feel the smoothness of Sherlock’s skin beneath his body, those long fingers of his tangled in his hair. Two years of blaming him, hating him, loving him, until one night John had had enough, and every emotion, every thought, every memory he had kept secret had broken through the dam, laying bare everything he had tried so hard to hide.

“Sir?” the doctor said uncertainly, pulling John out of his thoughts. He was looking at John expectantly, as if waiting for John to answer a question he hadn’t heard.

John knew he should beg his pardon for not having listened, but the words stuck in his throat, and he could do nothing but stare dumbly, attempting to hold onto the memory of the night when he first told Sherlock that he loved him. But the memory had already slipped away, replaced by the steady beeping of Sherlock’s heart monitor echoing in his ears.  

They were standing in the hallway outside Sherlock’s hospital room, keeping their voices low, so as not to disturb Sherlock, who was still groggy from the anaesthetic. John didn’t want to leave his side, not now, not while he was so vulnerable, but John had agreed to talk to the doctor outside the room where he could still see Sherlock lying on the bed through the slightly ajar door. He wanted to stay near Sherlock in case he needed anything, in case anything happened to him. John didn’t want to miss a drop in Sherlock’s blood pressure or a change in his electrocardiogram—he wouldn’t allow anything to go unnoticed, not when Sherlock’s life was on the line.

John opened his mouth, although he didn’t really know what to say, but the doctor, having gained his attention, continued before he could speak: “The operation went well without any complications, and his intracranial pressure has returned to normal, so try not to worry too much. We have arranged a room—”

John couldn’t prevent a chuckle from escaping his lips. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the doctor, unbelieving. Sherlock had suddenly lost his eyesight and no one knew why, not even the best doctors in London, but yeah, there was absolutely no need to worry, John thought sardonically while shaking his head in disbelief.

The doctor stopped in mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow in query. “What’s so funny, sir?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled in honest puzzlement, earning another chuckle from John.

Didn’t he see? Didn’t he _understand_?

John hated seeing that puzzled look on his face, even though he knew the doctor hadn’t done anything wrong. He was simply doing his job, providing comfort without giving false hope, and John, as a doctor, more than anyone, should know that. But he couldn’t help but feel annoyed. He wanted to take the doctor by the shoulders and shake him until he understood. He just needed someone to blame, someone to unleash his anger at. And although John knew there was no one to blame, not even himself, he needed to take his anger out on someone.

“I shouldn’t worry? Really?” John said, his voice rising, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. His voice sounded amused, but there was an edge of anger beneath his words. He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly from side to side. John knew he should stop before he made things worse, but he couldn’t. It was all just so unfair. So, so unfair. What had Sherlock ever done to deserve this?

“Doctor Watson—“

“He’s blind!” John exclaimed, his voice coming out louder than he had intended. He opened his eyes to see the shocked expression on the doctor’s face, and it took him less than a second to realise that there was no way Sherlock hadn’t heard him.

_Great_. Bloody wonderful.

John knew damn well that Sherlock didn’t need him telling out loud that he was blind; all Sherlock had to do was open his eyes, and it would become painfully clear to him. John beat himself up inwardly for making things worse. He hated the fact that Sherlock was the one lying in a hospital bed, and, yet, here he was, acting like _he_ had been wronged. He knew he had to pull himself together for the sake of Sherlock. He was tired and in desperate need of rest and undoubtedly having one of the worst and most emotionally draining days of his life, but he knew that there was no excuse for him to act like a child throwing a tantrum.  

For a brief moment, the doctor regarded John, his eyebrows raised, his eyes wide, but then he cleared his throat, clearly accustomed to the outbursts of his frustrated patients, and without any apparent effort, his face settled back into professional neutrality. The doctor held John’s gaze, no accusation in his eyes, and stayed quiet, waiting for John to continue.  

After a pregnant pause, John couldn’t take the awkward silence any longer. He sighed, dragging his hands across his face. “Sorry,” he said, sighing again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. It’s just—“ John paused, not knowing what to say, and shook his head. He was just so tired, so _bloody_ tired.

“No need to apologise, sir. I know this is hard for you, I really do. But you must understand we’re doing everything we can,” the doctor said, his gentle tone making John feel guilty for his outburst.  

The worst thing was that John knew he was telling the truth; there was nothing else to do now but wait. “I know,” John said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “I know.”

* * *

“Sherlock? You awake?” John asked, although he knew he was from the shallowness of his breathing and the occasional sigh.

“You know I am,” Sherlock said after a moment’s silence. His voice sounded dry and cracked, thin.

John got up from the chair he had dragged over to Sherlock’s hospital bed and went into the bathroom to fill a plastic cup with water. He considered turning on the light in the room but decided against it. His eyes already adjusting to the darkness, he walked back and sat on the edge of the bed. John could see the outline of Sherlock’s upper body in the dark, his bare chest rising and falling evenly to the rhythm of his breathing. More than anything, John wanted to be closer to him, wrap his arms around Sherlock’s slim form and feel his breathing, his chest rising below him, but there was only one bed and it was rather small, and John didn’t want his tossing and turning to keep Sherlock awake. He knew that it would have taken only one call to Mycroft to have him arrange another bed, but there were more important things to worry about than getting a good night’s sleep.

“How do you feel? Are you okay?” John asked, trying not to sound as concerned as he felt, but he couldn’t keep the worry from creeping into his voice. _God_ , John thought, he was starting to sound like a grandmother.    

“I’m fine, John.” There was no sign of Sherlock’s usual annoyance at his fussing, and John wasn’t sure whether to be glad or not.

John stayed silent for a moment, not quite knowing what to say. He knew Sherlock wasn’t telling the truth. Sherlock wasn’t fine, John could tell by the tension in Sherlock’s body, the way his jaw was set, his eyebrows furrowed; by the flat tone of his voice, the lack of arrogance in his manner, but he didn’t know how to make him feel better, so he did what he always did whenever feelings he couldn’t handle were involved—he changed the subject.  

“Here, drink this.”

Sherlock raised his head a little, and John brought the plastic cup to his lips and helped him drink, watching his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallowed in big gulps.

John placed the empty cup on the bedside table and returned his gaze back to Sherlock. “You need to get some sleep.” John kept his tone gentle but firm, catching Sherlock’s hand in his.

“So do you.”

“Sherlock—“

Sherlock huffed out a frustrated breath. “I can’t sleep.”

_Good_ , John thought, frustration was good. He was glad to get a reaction—any reaction—out of him.

“I can ask the nurse to give you something to help you—”

“No.”

Breathing out through his nose, John rubbed his forehead tiredly. He didn’t have the energy to argue, not tonight. “Sherlock…”

“No…” Sherlock said again, making John look up quickly. He was sounding hesitant now: “John, I—“

Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, John waited patiently for him to continue. He knew better than to rush Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed. “I—“ he inhaled shakily and then blurted out, “I can’t sleep without you.” He sounded suddenly so shy, so afraid, his voice barely above a whisper, and John couldn’t help but stare blankly at Sherlock’s face for a few seconds, letting his words sink in. He licked his lips, his mouth feeling suddenly dry.

“You know I can’t. The bed is—“   

“Please.” Sherlock’s voice was pleading now.

“Alright,” John said, ignoring the sudden tightness in his throat, “of course.”

Sherlock shifted to make room for him, and John crawled awkwardly beside him. He rolled onto his side toward Sherlock and pulled the sheet over them, draping his arm over Sherlock’s chest under it. Sherlock’s warmth felt comforting against his body, easing some of the tension he had been holding inside him.

“John,” Sherlock began, his voice so small, so soft that John thought his heart might break. “Thank you.”

John searched for Sherlock’s hand under the sheet and placed a kiss on his shoulder.

_I love you, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you lovely people! :)  
> It's finally time for my summer holiday! I'M FREE!! Now I'll finally have more time to write, too :)  
> What's up with you guys? Are you on holiday? Is setlock killing you too haha?  
> Here's a quick update, hope you enjoy it!  
> I'd love to hear your thoughts, take care xx

John wake to the sound of the rain battering against the window pane. When he opened his eyes, he became aware of his surroundings, and any lingering hope that the day before had been nothing but a bad dream evaporated into thin air. John saw the walls of the hospital room around him in the pale beam of light leaking under the door, and he could feel his heart plummet into the depths of his stomach as his worry returned to weigh heavily on his chest, constricting uncomfortably around his lungs.

It was still dark outside, no light filtering through the curtains, the only sound being the dull thudding of the rain. Had he been at home, in the warmth of 221B Baker Street, perched on the couch with Sherlock’s head resting on his thighs, the familiar rain of England would have felt cosy and safe, but now the chaotic weather only added to his gloomy mood.

With a yawn, John propped himself up on his elbows. It couldn’t be more than four, maybe five, in the morning, John thought, and a quick glance at the digital clock on the bedside table confirmed his suspicions. The glowing red numbers read 4:40.

Squinting his eyes in the darkness, John spent a moment staring in the direction of the window, and his thoughts shifted back to the dream he had just had. He wasn’t the type to believe that future could be predicted from dreams, but all the same, the dream had made him feel unsettled, and his brain refused to forget it, refused to even _think_ about forgetting it.

In the dream, he had been standing on wet tarmac, the musty smell of earth after rain and the acrid scent of engine smoke in his nostrils. The rain had stopped, and it had given way to silence, leaving his clothes dripping wet, and his hair plastered to his forehead, but the drops running down his cheeks had tasted salty.

It had been dark, almost too dark to see, but he had still been able to distinguish the outlines of Sherlock’s back in the distance, his figure getting smaller and smaller as he got further away.

John had tried to move, tried to run after him, but his legs wouldn’t allow him, as if some invisible force was holding them still.

And John had shouted at the top of his lungs. _Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock!_ He had shouted his name, as though it was the only word he knew, again and again, like a mantra. He had shouted until his throat hurt, and his voice grew hoarse, and then he had shouted some more.

But Sherlock hadn’t heard him. He hadn’t turned back.

He had watched Sherlock walk further and further away, his silhouette vanishing in the dark night, and he had tried to force his legs to move with all the force he could muster—God, he had tried—but they wouldn’t obey his will, wouldn’t obey the simple command to run, leaving him standing alone on the cold, wet tarmac.

Sherlock had been beyond his reach, eventually disappearing into the dark, and John hadn’t been able to _breathe_.

Gasping for air, John snapped back to reality, noticing that he had been holding his breath. He needed air. He needed to breathe.

And John tried to breathe, tried to break the invisible bands around his lungs that prevented him from getting much needed air.

No. He couldn’t afford a panic attack. Not now. Not when Sherlock was lying beside him.

_Sherlock._

He was relieved to see Sherlock lying beside him, dark unruly curls falling across his forehead, untamed, like the man himself. Watching his peaceful face, John pushed the dream away. He knew Sherlock would have told him to forget the nonsense; he would have rolled his eyes and said something like, “You can’t seriously believe in that ridiculous superstition.” Sherlock would have sighed in exasperation, being his usual cocky self, wrapped in that white sheet he liked wearing at home. Or hell, John thought, in Buckingham Palace. The memory made the corners of his lips twitch upward, and a huff of air escaped through his nose, as he bit the inside of his cheek in order not to laugh.

The brief moment of joy that the memory had triggered, however, dissipated quickly, as John was startled by the distant clatter of wheels against linoleum, and his mind popped back into the present. Swallowing the sigh that threatened to slip past his lips, John shifted his gaze away from the direction of the sound, and back to Sherlock.

To his surprise, Sherlock was still sound asleep, facing him with his right arm flung across the sheets and his left arm hidden somewhere underneath, small puffs of air escaping his lips. John lowered himself down from his elbows and slowly rolled onto his right side to feel the exhalations of warm air on his cheeks.

John let his mouth curve into a smile as he listened to the soft sound of his breathing. John wanted to reach out and touch him, to caress his cheek and feel the slight stubble that had begun to form on his chin, stroke his curls away from his forehead, run his fingers lightly over his cheek. He had an unbearable need to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him, but he contained himself, not wanting to wake him. As much as he already missed hearing his deep baritone voice, John knew that Sherlock needed the rest.

Closing his eyes, John stayed still, breathing in the scent of Sherlock’s hair. He could smell a hint of disinfectant and latex, but the familiar musky scent of pine trees and lavender was still detectable. Breathing through his nostrils, John let the scent calm him, to remind him of home. He wanted to linger in the warmth that radiated from Sherlock’s body, curl up next to his sleeping form, and forget everything else for a while.

When John opened his eyes, he realised that he had fallen asleep again. The sunlight was seeping through the curtains, and the rain had stopped. John could hear the heavy drops of water falling off the roof onto the windowsill, as he let his eyes adjust to the morning light. He could tell that he had moved in his sleep; their legs were tangled together, one of Sherlock’s knees between his, and John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat against his arm that was resting over his chest. The cotton hospital gown felt cool and comfortable against his skin, but he craved more. More skin. More touch. More _Sherlock Holmes_.

John felt Sherlock shift under his arm, as if his wish had been heard. He watched Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow and his chin crease, as his mouth stretched into a big, gaping yawn, and John couldn’t help but adore him and all his tiny chins. “Good morning, love” he breathed out, peering down into Sherlock’s face. “How are you feeling?”

For one fleeting moment, John could see how Sherlock stiffened beside him, but he recovered quickly, his features once again unreadable. “I’m perfectly fine, John,” Sherlock said, attempting a smile, but his voice sounded weak. He grimaced.

John pulled himself closer to Sherlock until their faces were a mere inch apart. “Hey,” John murmured and brushed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth with his lips, with just the slightest pressure, eliciting a soft gasp from him. “It’s all right.”

John slid his hand under Sherlock’s hospital gown, his fingertips tracing the ridge of Sherlock’s collar bone, and the line of his ribs, in an attempt to soothe him. “You don’t need to try to be strong for me, Sherlock. You know that, right?” John said carefully, lightly resting his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“I said I was fine—“

John silenced him with a kiss, closing the short distance between their slightly parted lips.

Sherlock was stunned for a brief moment, his lips unmoving and soft under his, but John didn’t pull away; he paused, waiting, his lips ghosting over Sherlock’s, and then grasped his chin, tilting it up, pressing their lips together in order to deepen the kiss.

After the moment of surprise, Sherlock relaxed under his touch and brought his left hand up to cup John’s cheek, his thumb caressing the skin as he kissed John back. John could feel the faint stubble on Sherlock’s jaw brushing against his skin, as Sherlock dived into the kiss, opening his lips just enough to allow John’s tongue enter his mouth.

John brought his hand up and pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, grabbing a fistful of his dark curls and pulling gently, eliciting a soft moan deep from Sherlock’s throat. John hummed against his mouth, his tongue searching for Sherlock’s, swirling around his, as the kiss grew wetter, more urgent. Their mouths were hot against each other, and John could feel the heat of Sherlock’s breath against his lips as they kissed and kissed, reducing John to a quivering mess of need and desire.

He couldn’t help the moan that escaped his lips, as Sherlock’s mouth grew more demanding, more insistent, their tongues eagerly exploring each other’s mouths, tangled together, tasting, searching.

John swiped his tongue along Sherlock’s swollen bottom lip, gently tugging at it before releasing it, only to crush their mouths back together.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and John pulled back a bit, pausing, their lips barely touching as they breathed each other’s air.

“I—we should slow down. I don’t want to raise your intracranial pressure,” John breathed. He brought his hand to Sherlock’s forehead, pushing the soft curls away from his face. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded, his lips trembling slightly.

John placed one last kiss on his lips, pulling away, and reached to caress the outline of Sherlock’s bottom lip with his thumb. After a moment’s hesitation, he began, “You say you’re fine, but just so you know, it’s okay _not_ to be fine.” He paused, not knowing how to continue. “Just… you can always talk to me if there’s—if you—I’ll be here. Alright?”

To his surprise, Sherlock didn’t protest; he simply nodded again. John tried to study his face but couldn’t read his expression, his closed eyes revealing nothing.

“Okay. Good. It’s—good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! XX  
> Thank you so much for your comments on the previous chapter, they really sped up my writing :)  
> Here's a bit longer update, hope you enjoy it!

Sherlock was drowning. He was drowning in sensation and want and desire, the raw ache of need building within him, pooling hot and low in his belly. He was drowning in John, the fear of losing him making Sherlock want him even more.

Not being able to see John made it harder to anticipate where the next caress would land. Sherlock felt light-headed and breathless, all the sensory input overwhelming him—the sound of John’s harsh breathing, the heat of his mouth, and the scrape of his stubble against his skin, John’s heart beating against his chest, strong and steady while his was pounding rapidly, skipping beats.

John’s lips were ghosting over his, his breath warm against his skin, tickling the corner of his mouth. Sherlock could still taste him on his lips, taste the bitter morning breath with a lingering hint of mint from toothpaste mixed with the unique taste of John, warm and welcoming, like home. Sherlock was fully aware how painfully unoriginal his description was, but he couldn’t care less, all the stupid, sickeningly sweet clichés about John being true. Even with morning breath, he tasted divine. John always tasted divine, and he desperately wanted to close the distance between them, and taste him again. Again and again.

“Alright?”

Sherlock was startled inwardly as John’s voice invaded his thoughts, and he realised that he hadn’t listened, having lost himself in John, his taste, his touch.

_John. John. John._

John made him lose focus. Having him so close, just a breath apart, overwhelmed all of his senses, making his skin itch with desire, every fibre of his being craving him closer, every nerve in his body alert and ready to fire. John reduced him to a hormone-riddled teenage boy, dulling his brain, and filling it with mind-fogging want, leaving no room for anything else. He simply couldn’t think clearly when John Watson was ravishing his mouth.

He had once thought it impossible that he could feel that amount of passion for someone, the inexhaustible need to kiss someone senseless, to hold them close and never let go; that gnawing fear of losing someone that never really went away, but John made him second-guess everything he knew about himself. _John_. It was always him.

John’s thumb hovered against his bottom lip, making it hard to concentrate, and Sherlock’s heart stuttered in his chest. For half a second—his thought process slower than usual—he considered whether he should ask him to repeat what he just said, but decided against it; he hated repeating himself and he knew he shouldn’t expect anyone else to want to do it either. Holding his eyes closed, seeing no point in opening them, Sherlock nodded once, hoping John hadn’t noticed that he had no idea what he was agreeing to.

“Okay. Good. It’s—good.”

Sherlock felt him pull away, leaving him feeling slightly off-balance. He could feel the mattress shift under him as John slid off the bed. Sherlock felt exposed in the absence of his touch. He didn’t feel safe, not when he couldn’t touch, let alone see John.

“We should get you dressed. The doctor said they want to run more tests today.”

Sherlock found it more difficult to deduce John when he couldn’t see the expression on his face. He wanted to know if there was a frown between his eyebrows, if his lips were pressed into a tight line. Was he smiling? Probably not. Was there pity in his eyes? Probably. He tried to focus on his voice instead, but it was free from any obvious emotion, and Sherlock didn’t like guessing. Much to his frustration, John’s voice being hoarse from lack of use—it was still early, and there had been more kissing than talking—was the only thing he could be certain of.

Sherlock wanted to ask John to kiss him again, but instead, he took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm his racing heart, and tried his best to appear nonchalant. “I want to go home.”

Sighing heavily in response, John replied, “I know, Sherlock, me too. But the sooner we get you dressed, the sooner they can get started. They want to examine your eyes and do some blood tests. It shouldn’t take too long. Here, let me help you.”

This time his attempt to sound reassuring failed miserably, the worry painfully evident in his strained voice, and Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle the sudden urge to scream. He couldn’t bear the thought of John being worried, let alone the thought of John being worried because of him. He needed John to stay unaffected when he himself couldn’t. Sherlock needed his reassurance and confidence. He needed the John who was calm in the face of danger, the one who was steady and fearless. The one who kept him right.

* * *

“I’m starving. We haven’t eaten anything since we left home God knows how many hours ago,” John groaned, “And Sherlock, you—“

“Not hungry.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, John didn’t even try to suppress his sigh. “Yes you are. I’ll make sure you eat something,” John said, making sure his voice sounded firm, leaving no room for discussion.

Stealing a glance at him, he found Sherlock looking displeased, his lips set in a sulky pout. “There’s a canteen downstairs. It won’t be anything fancy, but you have to eat. Let’s…“ John began, ignoring the sulking he had grown accustomed to, but his words trailed off. He knew that Sherlock was ashamed of walking now that he struggled to keep his balance, having to cling to John’s arms for stability. There had been no mistaking the blush that had crept up Sherlock’s neck as John had escorted him to an examination room a few hours earlier.  

Before John had time to finish his sentence, however, Sherlock seemed to read his mind. “I’ll wait here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I could—“

“Go, John.”

“Okay,” John searched his face for any sign of him being upset, but found none, Sherlock’s face remaining perfectly devoid of expression. “Alright. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait here,” John added, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, scolding himself silently.

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath. “It isn’t as if I could just get up and find my way out of this hospital alone.”

His heart sank slightly as he saw a flash of bitter agony cross Sherlock’s face. “Right. I—I’ll be back soon.”

John rose from his chair and walked to the door, and before he left the hospital room, he took one last glance back at Sherlock lying on the bed with his upper body propped up by pillows, his empty eyes staring at the ceiling, his face lacking any emotion. But just as he was about to turn and go, he heard Sherlock take a shuddering breath as a flicker of sadness crossed his features, his face twisting into a wince. He knew that Sherlock thought that he had already left, that he couldn’t see him, and it pained him to know that Sherlock couldn’t let down his guard when he was with him. Fighting the stinging sensation behind his eyelids, John left the room in silence.  

John wished that he could comfort Sherlock in some way, but the only thing he could think of that would make him feel better was good news, and he couldn’t offer them, at least not yet. They had taken an MRI, another CT scan, and several blood tests, and John had got a phone call from Sherlock’s doctor who had promised to come and examine his eyes with an ophthalmoscope within an hour. Now the only thing they could do was wait for the results.

Before he even realised he had arrived at the canteen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee snapped him out of his thoughts. The canteen was nearly empty, with an older couple drinking tea at a table in the corner, while a middle-aged woman was spooning porridge into her daughter’s mouth at one of the tables near the counter. It was inviting with cream walls, wooden floors and beige cushions, nothing like the understaffed and hectic hospital canteens John was used to.

“Good morning, sir,” a man wearing a white apron behind the counter greeted him with a bright smile.

“Good morning.” John offered him a slight smile, walking to the counter.

Turning his attention to the display of sandwiches and pastries, John searched the counter for something that Sherlock would find at least mildly appealing. The task proved immensely difficult.

“What can I get you, sir?”

“Two coffees, please, and,” John began, but was interrupted by the sound of his mobile phone beeping. “Er, excuse me.” Giving the man an apologetic smile, he fished his mobile out of his pocket, and opened the message.

_11:22 AM_

_Black coffee with two sugars, please. And if you insist I eat something, I’d like a croissant. Thank you. SH_

John stared incredulously at the screen. He had no idea how Sherlock had managed to type out a text message without any grammatical or spelling errors. He knew he should be used to it by now, but Sherlock, somehow, never failed to surprise him.

With a smile on his face, he finished his order, and made his way back to the hospital room balancing two cups of coffee in his right hand, and holding a stack of two sandwiches and two croissants against his chest.

“Got your text.”

“I’d hoped so,” Sherlock smirked, and John couldn’t help the grin breaking out on his face as he saw Sherlock’s mouth curve into a smile.

“Here’s your coffee and croissant.”

“Thank you, John.”

“ _And_ ,” John said pointedly, “I also got you a sandwich. A croissant is nowhere near enough to keep you alive.”

Sherlock groaned in protest, but grabbed the sandwich with a scowl.

Although he knew Sherlock couldn’t see it, John smiled at him, satisfied; he considered it a victory whenever he succeeded in making Sherlock Holmes eat. “Just that I’d prefer my boyfriend alive.”

And it was meant as a harmless joke, but John couldn’t help but feel a jolt of fear racing through him. He had avoided thinking about it, but now, the joke he hadn’t thought through properly, reminded him of the possibility that Sherlock might die. He swallowed harshly against the sudden tightness in his throat, hating himself for even thinking about it.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, as observant as ever, staring in John’s direction, his forehead furrowed with puzzlement.

Clearing his throat, John did his best to shove the thought away, and tried to compose himself enough to respond in a somewhat steady voice. “Um, nothing. Nothing. Let’s eat,” he muttered, attempting a light tone, but it fell short of the mark.

Sherlock continued to look suspicious, but he didn’t say anything, for which John was thankful, and instead took a bite of his sandwich, chewing it thoughtfully.    

Lowering himself onto his chair beside the bed, John broke off a piece of his sandwich, but his stomach was twisting unpleasantly, and his appetite was gone.

* * *

“Dr Watson, Mr Holmes,” the doctor nodded at them as he said their names. “The test results have arrived. Are you ready to discuss them now?”

John stood up and nodded his head in greeting. “Yes, of course.” He tried not to sound impatient, but his words came out a bit snappish.

The doctor glanced at Sherlock and saw him nod in agreement. “Very well. There was nothing on the CT scan, and the blood tests came back normal. No infection, nothing. I also took a look at the MRI, and there’s nothing there. No brain injury, no tumour.”

“Thank God,” John breathed, relief flooding over him. His legs feeling suddenly weak, he sank back down onto the edge of his chair, and closed his eyes for a second, allowing himself a tiny hope that Sherlock might survive.

The doctor smiled at him briefly, but then his face went serious again. “Would you mind if we went to my examination room so that I could take a look at Mr Holmes’ eyes.”

“No, not at all.”   

Before helping Sherlock off the bed, John took his hand in his, giving it a soft squeeze, trying his best to convey what he couldn’t bring himself to say, afraid his voice might break.

_We’ll be all right._

Sherlock gave him a subtle nod, and John needed no words to know that he had understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Any thoughts? Comments and kudos are always appreciated :)


	13. Chapter 13

_I’m very sorry._

His hair caught the sunlight, making it glisten like gold as it swayed in the gentle breeze. He smiled that smile that reached his eyes and crinkled them at the corners, his teeth flashing in a grin, a vein popping out on his forehead as he laughed, a low chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. His blue irises, encircled by narrow rings of charcoal, stood in contrast to his tanned skin, the look in them deep and piercing, locked on his. Sherlock had always admired how John could look so tender, so loving and genuinely gentle, but at the same time so intense that he looked as if he wanted to bend Sherlock over the closest surface right then and there. _John._ His beautiful John.

_Idiopathic._

Like an artist looking at his painting, Sherlock looked at the face from a distance, examining all the details, trying to ensure that all the measurements were correct and in proportion to each other, from the length of his nose bone to the width of his eyelashes. Sherlock took a step closer, tilting his head to the right. He wouldn’t get another chance to take a look at John, not outside the confines of his mind. He wanted to remember every line, every curve, every freckle; how John’s lips twitched briefly before he burst out laughing, how his nostrils flared when he giggled, how he tried to contain himself, his eyelids pressed shut, slightly shaking his head from side to side, grinning with amusement. He couldn’t afford to forget anything, because if he did, it would be lost forever.

_Intracranial._

It would be lost like his ability to look into a microscope. He would never again be able to hunch over his microscope to conduct chemical analyses. Never again would he look through the lens and examine crime scene samples. He would struggle to perform even simple tasks, let alone conduct detailed experiments. Studying the chemical composition of substances, such as tobacco ash, would be much more difficult—someone might say impossible, but Sherlock was certain he would find a way. And if he didn’t, Sherlock thought, at least John wouldn’t mind. He had always found his experiments ridiculous, anyway.

_Hypertension._

He would never again enter a crime scene and take it in with a sweeping glance. Yes, he would still be able to hear if there was a river flowing nearby, or if he was close to a heavily trafficked area. He would be able to listen to witnesses, analyse tones, and distinguish between different accents. He would still be able to use his other senses: examine victims with his hands, trace his fingers along their clothes to find tears or creases that shouldn’t be there; taste if something had been poisoned, or smell how long a body had been dead, but it wouldn’t be enough. Sight was of paramount importance to him. Sherlock wanted to see, needed to see, to observe every detail of a scene before him, to deduce from what he knew to be true because he had seen it with his own eyes. To really _observe_ , he needed his eyes.

_Permanent._

**permanent**

adjective UK /ˈpɜː.mə.nənt/

lasting for a long time or for ever

Gently closing the wooden door behind him, Sherlock exited the room, and exited his mind palace.

 

* * *

 

“The bilateral swelling has destroyed the myelin sheath covering the optic nerves. Your blindness is permanent, Mr Holmes, I’m afraid.”

John glanced at Sherlock. He was sitting on the chair next to him, his expression schooled into a mask of indifference, but John could tell by his slightly slumped shoulders that the news had affected him. Forcing himself to ignore the heavy feeling in his chest, John carefully placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee, and returned his attention to the doctor. He saw the doctor’s lips move, but he could barely concentrate on what he was saying. He heard some of the words, but struggled to arrange them into coherent sentences, his mind not wanting to understand the meaning of them.

_Idiopathic. Hypertension. Elevated CSF pressure. Headache. Vision loss._

“Pseudotumour cerebri,” the doctor paused briefly. “Have you ever heard of it?”

“Well, yes. False brain tumour. Cerebrospinal fluid builds up in the brain, causes a rise in intracranial pressure, and the patient experiences symptoms that mimic a brain tumour,” John recited, as if from a medical book. “Never seen it in my career, though.” His throat felt dry, his voice hoarse.

“It’s very rare, and more common in overweight women so—“

“He’s hardly overweight. Or a woman,” John interjected. He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“You’re right, and we cannot be sure, but it’s a possibility.”

“Of course.”

“What about drugs?

“Wha—“ John let out an incredulous huff. “No. He’s clean.”

Ignoring John, the doctor turned to face Sherlock. “Mr Holmes—“

“I said he’s clean. I’m his partner. We _live_ together. If anyone should know, it would be—“

“Dr Watson, I must ask you to calm down.”

John snapped his mouth shut, and clenching his jaw, he willed himself to take deep, slow breaths. He knew it wasn’t the doctor’s fault that he was touchy on the subject. John knew about Sherlock’s past drug use, and although he would never admit it out loud, he was afraid that Sherlock might relapse. The fear remained at the edge of his mind, threatening to resurface every time someone mentioned Sherlock and drugs in the same sentence. John stole a sideways glance at Sherlock. He was seemingly unaffected, but John knew he had noticed that his grip had tightened around his knee.

“We must consider every possibility, no matter how unlikely.”

John stifled a sigh, running his unoccupied hand across his forehead. “I know.”

“We will need to monitor his intracranial pressure until we find the cause,” the doctor paused when John sighed, and then he continued. “We’ll schedule regular check-ups.”

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up, surprisingly gracefully, the chair screeching against the floor as it moved backward, and turned in the direction of John, his vacant stare missing John’s eyes by a few inches.

“You all right, Sherlock?”

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> Edit// THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER! NO WAY NEAR THE LAST! DON'T WORRY!!
> 
> I want to thank you for your sweet comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. I'm lucky to have received such a positive response :)  
> I hope you enjoyed the short update, and please, tell me your thoughts! I'd love to hear them.
> 
> P.S. Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO INCREDIBLY SORRY. It's been forever since I updated, life got in the way and the past few months haven't been the easiest... I don't blame you if you have stopped checking for updates. 
> 
> Actually, I'll be very surprised if someone is still interested in finding out what's going to happen to our boys, thank you for being so patient. I really appreciate it!
> 
> Lots of love to you! <3

John sat in his armchair at six in the morning with his hands hanging in his lap and his eyes, half-open and bleary, rimmed with dark circles, as if he had been punched, fixated on the cup on the coffee table on his right. The saggy leather chair opposite him loomed in his peripheral vision, somehow ominous in its emptiness. He did his best to avoid looking at it.

The room was disturbingly quiet. He could hear his own breathing, every intake of breath. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. John had a sudden impulse to scream, to break the silence with a shout, hear his words disturbing the peace: What did I do? What _should_ I do? He wanted to recite every swear word known to humankind, feel every word squeezing out of his tightened throat, let everyone know how miserable he was. But he remained silent, willing himself to calm down, his eyes still locked on the cup. Take a deep breath, calm down, John reminded himself, letting the coffee-scented air tickle his nostrils and fill his lungs as he closed his eyes while raising his eyebrows. He had to keep calm for Sherlock’s sake. Jesus. He was a man, a _military_ man, trained to keep his emotions bottled up, to keep cool even in a crisis, always able to rise above his feelings, be the master of them. And he tried, he _really_ tried, to convince himself that he could do it, suppress the unpleasant feelings, push them away, just like he had done so many times before, but he could feel the pressure slowly building inside, growing stronger and stronger until he felt like a pot on the brink of boiling over, his head feeling like it was going to explode.

He was filled with anger and frustration, his unspoken worry weighing heavy on his mind, thought after thought wandering through his brain, drifting back to anger despite his attempts to think of something else, anything that would put his mind at ease. And John thought about the things that made him—well, _used_ to make him—feel happy and safe and…loved.

John thought of crime scenes: bending over with laughter after cracking a joke in post-case haze, Sherlock by his side, giggling like a child, a silly grin plastered on his face, his giddiness infectious; he thought of their dinner dates at Angelo’s: Sherlock sitting across him, soft candlelight flickering on his face, beautiful even in the pout caused by John forcing him to eat by shovelling a forkful of gnocchi into his mouth; their evening walks along the banks of the Thames: holding takeaway cups of coffee and each other’s hands, John subtly pointing at people and Sherlock deducing them. And he thought of the night before everything came crashing down: collapsing into bed together, the hot humidity of Sherlock’s breath against his throat, the thin fabric of John’s T-shirt growing clammy against Sherlock’s damp skin.

Suddenly, another thought struck him, something that he had decided to ignore in his growing state of arousal that night; he remembered that something had struck him as odd: being a doctor, he couldn’t not notice Sherlock’s pulse being a bit too elevated, his heart hammering slightly irregularly beneath John’s fingers, his skin being cold and covered with perspiration despite the warmth of the room. And what had alarmed him the most had been Sherlock’s eyes: they had seemed unfocused and glassy, nothing like his usual intense laser-focused gaze. John had asked Sherlock if everything was all right, but Sherlock had just waved it aside and shut him up by attacking his mouth with feverish desperation. Other thoughts had occupied John’s mind as Sherlock had dropped his head between his thighs, but for a moment he had thought that Sherlock had seemed as if…no. No, it didn’t matter now, John told himself, and pushed the thought away.

John rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. Regardless if he wanted it or not, Sherlock crowded his thoughts, and instead of the usual affection that flooded his whole being when he thought of Sherlock, he couldn’t help but feel anger creeping into his chest, swelling and growing until it was hard to breathe, the emotion choking his lungs.

Sherlock had invaded his thoughts, snaked his way into John’s unconscious mind, filled every fibre of his being, making it impossible for him to get a moment’s peace. He would lie awake in bed at night, thinking about how Sherlock had behaved that day, analysing his every sentence, every word, every inflection he had used, every movement of his lips, every twitch of his eyes, his fingers, muscles in his face. John’s mind would be racing, trying to understand what was happening to Sherlock, to them, rendering him unable to sleep. And when he finally did fall asleep, due to exhaustion rather than a desire to get some sleep, Sherlock would find his way into his dreams and nightmares, which consisted of incoherent flashes, a jumble of unpleasant images, and memories seen through a distorted lens. And so the anger was always present, hovering on the edge of his thoughts.

But his anger wasn’t directed at Sherlock. He couldn’t blame Sherlock after what had happened to him. No, not in a million years.

His anger was directed solely at himself.

It had been a week since they had woken up from their untroubled slumber only to realise that Sherlock had lost the one thing that he had always been able to rely on, the one thing that had helped him distinguish truth from illusion, helped him calm and compose his agitated thoughts whenever his mind was trying to lead him astray, pushing him into worthless speculation. He had always been able to trust the evidence of his own eyes, trust the information that they could gather from crime scenes, darting around like a frightened rabbit, taking in everything as quickly as possible, carefully analysing data before filing it away neatly in the safety of his mind.

It had been a week since they had had any conversation except the mundane. It almost felt like they were back in the time when they hadn’t yet confessed their feelings for each other, before they were together. Their conversation had been reduced to pointless, laconic chatter, which John desperately tried to keep up. And he was tired of small talk, sick of feeling as if he were talking to a brick wall. He didn’t want to talk one more time about the surprisingly cold weather, or the increasing prices at Tesco, or how they were out of milk again, and he most certainly didn’t want to get another nonchalant grunt in reply.

In an attempt to keep his swollen eyes and sleep-deprived mind off the empty chair, John studied the ceramic coffee cup, its handle that took the form of a swan’s neck, the faded light blue and yellow pattern of flowers on the outside of the upper rim. Inhaling the bitter steam rising from the dark liquid, he focused on the cup, as if he were practicing some sort of meditation, burning incense and a cross-legged position the only things missing.

John stared at the cup, noticing the fine cracks in the white ceramic, the coffee stains along the top rim. He hadn’t bothered to wash it before use, and looking at the stains, John couldn’t help but think of Mrs Hudson and how she would have disapproved. But to his relief, she was out of town for the weekend visiting a friend in Bristol, and thus not able to witness his lack of common decency.

For the past week, Mrs Hudson had tiptoed around the flat, trying to be subtle but failing miserably, offering her help, sweeping, mopping, wiping, dusting the tables, washing the dishes in the kitchen, beating the dust out of the pillows and mattresses in their bedroom, polishing cutlery that did not require polishing, all the while she kept stealing pitying glances in Sherlock’s direction, when she thought John wasn’t looking. She had begun to act more and more like a housekeeper than a landlady until one morning John had found her on her knees, scrubbing the bathroom floor, and decided that he had had enough. He had snapped at her and told her to take the weekend off. John had stared into her frightened eyes and raised his voice, something he rarely did in her presence. He still felt guilty for yelling at her, but her constant presence had made him feel inadequate, as if he weren’t capable of taking care of both the flat and Sherlock.

And the truth was that he wasn’t capable of it, not in the slightest. He was exhausted from trying to act unaffected by the change in Sherlock’s behaviour. He was weary of trying to maintain a hopeful outlook when he felt like screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming and screaming until he was out of breath. He had adopted a tone of voice which he hoped sounded reassuring and positive, but he knew that in reality he just sounded fake. He couldn’t sleep; his nights consisted of waking up in a sweat-soaked panic three, four, or five times a night. And every time he woke up, he was greeted by an empty bed.

John had known that it was going to be bad. He had known once they had returned home from the hospital, and Sherlock had locked himself in his room, his _old_ room, after spending a good fifteen minutes carefully groping his way across the living room, touching every object along his path, running his fingers over surfaces, feeling, observing. Sherlock had refused any help, refused to use a cane.

It had been a week and they had already become strangers to each other. John didn’t know how he could miss someone who was just one door away. He missed the late nights, watching crap telly until one of them, usually John, fell asleep, Sherlock’s witty remarks and the way he shouted at the screen; he missed the good morning kisses, Sherlock’s lips on his cheek, his on top of Sherlock’s head, his warm skin against his just before dawn, their bodies curled together like vines; he missed work, the cases, the adrenaline rush of tailing criminals and pursuing serial killers. He missed Sherlock.

Sherlock was keeping himself busy. He had started learning Braille by self-study. He was spending hours walking around the flat, memorising distances in the different rooms, calculating how many steps there were from his chair to the music stand by the window, from the music stand to the sofa. He locked himself in his room for hours, examining different textures, running his fingers over hundreds of materials from his silk dressing gowns to ground oregano. And John was half-relieved that Sherlock was trying to make the best of the situation, half-worried that Sherlock wasn’t trusting him enough to ask for help. John knew that he should be glad that Sherlock didn’t let his blindness stop him, that he was trying to adjust to the situation. And he was glad, he really was. But Sherlock wasn’t talking to him, he had closed himself off completely, shut John out, and it was driving John crazy. John wanted to be there for him, but he didn't know how, and he was angry at himself for not being brave enough to talk, for not trying hard enough. Sherlock was coping, and all John could do was sit there and watch. 

He had talked with Greg and the man had told him to relax. Greg had tried to reassure him that it had only been a week and everything would go back to normal eventually. The word ‘normal’ had sounded so absurd coming out of his mouth, his voice filled with his badly hidden concern, and John hadn’t been able to stifle his laughter. He had laughed, a sharp, unhumorous laugh, raw and hard, an echo of pain audible in his voice. Normal. Right. Nothing would ever be normal again, not for Sherlock, not for him. Sherlock and normal didn’t fit in the same sentence, especially not when the word ‘blind’ was added to the mix.      

Suddenly, John was aware of Sherlock standing in front of him. Caught off guard, John gazed up at him, not knowing what to say. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “You alright?”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. He stood on both feet, his dark blue dressing gown hanging loosely around his slim body, which had grown even thinner during the past week, his pyjama bottoms dragging low on his waist. His face needed shaving, his hair wasn’t immaculately coiffed as usual, his curls a dishevelled mess on top of his head, standing in awkward clumps. John couldn’t help but notice the coffee stain on his white T-shirt, standing out like blood on snow. Sherlock could be so vain and pedantic, and John knew that he would never intentionally wear dirty clothes. Knowing that Sherlock was unaware of the coffee stain made his chest feel tight. John didn’t have the heart to point it out. Instead, he made a mental note to remove the stain later when Sherlock abandoned the shirt somewhere in the house.

“Yes, I’m alright.” His voice was calm but not reassuring.

John was caught off guard again, his eyes snapping back to Sherlock’s face. It was hard to interpret Sherlock’s expression, his glassy eyes staring somewhere above John’s head, empty, without sign of the usual spark. There were dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes, matching those under his own. “You’re awake,” John said dumbly, at a loss for words.

“Excellent deduction,” Sherlock said tiredly, his voice less sardonic than usual.

At least something hadn’t changed, John thought, and his eyes grew damp. Blinking quickly, he tried to force back the tears. He just wanted things to go back to normal, back to insults and eye rolls, back to Sherlock being a rude, annoying git. _His_ annoying git.

“I’m ready to get back to work.”

“Wha—“ John began, but the word died on his lips. Stunned, he stared at Sherlock, suddenly unsure of whether he was awake or not. He hadn’t expected this at all, hadn’t prepared himself for the possibility that Sherlock would want to go back to work so soon after losing something of such crucial importance to him. He had thought that Sherlock wouldn’t want anyone at Scotland Yard seeing him so vulnerable, pitying him. “Sherlock… It’s only been a week since…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, the words got stuck in his throat.

“Since what?” Sherlock snapped. There was a sudden harshness in his voice. “Stop acting like I’m some kind of fragile flower who needs protecting. Do you think I’m an invalid just because I can’t see? You want me to go around with a blind cane like I’m some sort of old man. You follow me everywhere like I’m in need of a babysitter. I’m not crippled.” He was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring. The muscles in his jaw were taut as if he were grinding his molars together, his lips pursed into a tight line.

John’s heart gave an uneasy leap at the tone of his voice. “I just think it would be better if…”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, and John couldn’t help but notice the slight tremble of his lower lip. “You’re ashamed. You don’t think I can do it. You’re afraid of what the others will think of me. You’re scared they’ll hurt my _feelings_.” He spat the last word out as if it tasted foul on his tongue.

“No, that is not true, Sherlock, and you know it.”

“So you want to keep me locked up here forever?”

“You need some time to adjust, this is a huge…” John began, trying to ignore the venom in Sherlock’s voice.

Sherlock made an annoyed voice in the back of his throat. “I? I need some time? Are you sure it’s _me_ who needs some time?”

“Alright, _I_ , I need some time. Maybe I do need some time. You have barely talked to me since we left that goddamn hospital. Don’t you know that this is killing me? I’m your partner. I miss you Sherlock.”

“You don’t know how it is.”

“No. Of course I don’t.”

“John—“ Sherlock began, pushing his hair back in frustration.

“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“No, you don’t! I can’t see, John! I lost everything I got. Please don’t take away my work, it’s the only thing I have left.”

John’s stomach seized. “The only thing, huh?” He was hurt and Sherlock seemed to sense it though he couldn’t see.

“John, I didn’t mean—“

“I can’t do this, Sherlock. I can’t do this right now.” John got up from his chair and walked past Sherlock without giving him a glance. “I’m going out.” 


End file.
